


Upgrade

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Adjacent [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Airplanes, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), Biphobia, But they're fleeting, Case Fic, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Greg's ex is a bitch, Greg's ex is even worse than you first thought, Homophobia, M/M, Protective Mycroft, Supportive Sally, awesome Anthea, bi erasure, flirting for an upgrade, mentions of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15395049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's just happy to be on a flight home. First class is nice, of course, but he just wants to relax. When his seatmate turns out to be Mycroft Holmes, and his ex-wife is a couple of rows ahead, relaxation is not really an option...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As I plan long-haul travel later this year, I'm thinking about being on airplanes. A lot. So even though I said the 'Adjacent' collection is Greg and Mycroft living together, my brain happily began constructing a scenario in which they are seated next to each other on a flight.  
> Close enough, I guess, thanks brain.
> 
> For the record, I've amalgamated a number of first class cabins I found online to give me the features I needed. It's not based on any one airline, but you can get (on various airlines): adjacent seats that fold into double beds, dividing screens that completely disappear, pods with doors about five and a half feet high, and personalised menus. :)
> 
> Important to know: There are potentially triggering moments sprinkled through this story, including recollections of emotional abuse and manipulation and bi-phobic language. Tread carefully, friends <3

Greg realised the guy at the check in desk was flirting with him but to be honest, he didn’t really care right now. He’d hated Johannesburg; it was nothing personal against the city, but jumping on a flight at the last minute to chase a suspect was not how he’d wanted to spend his week. It had taken some fast talking – from Heathrow – to placate his boss, convince her to allow Greg to go instead of calling INTERPOL.

So he’d boarded the first available flight, spent most of the eleven and a half hours there liaising with local police by email, hoping to smooth the inevitably ruffled feathers at his arrival. It had kind of worked; he’d had the deep satisfaction of arresting the scumbag they’d been chasing, seeing the shock and disbelief on his face before he was whisked away by local police. Another ten hours wording up the team of detectives, talking to their legal team, starting the paperwork for extradition. The South Africans had been just as keen to keep this guy as Greg had been to bring him home, but that wasn’t Greg’s problem. As long as they knew the legal guys from NSY would be in touch, his job was done.

By the time he’d arrived at the airport, crossing his fingers to find a flight home that day, Greg did not care in the slightest that the clerk was giving him signals brighter than the Northern Lights. At least until…

“I’m so sorry sir, there are just no seats available direct to London until tomorrow. I could book you via Dubai, but you’re looking at a seven hour layover.”

The way he said the word ‘layover’ was suggestive, Greg dimly recognised. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself. “Sorry. Not your fault. Long week.”

“Not a problem,” the young man said, eyes roaming over Greg’s face. “You’ve been working here, then?”

“Yeah. From Scotland Yard,” Greg told him, trying to decide if he could face a seven hour layover, or if he’d be better off crashing here and coming back in the morning. Neither option was attractive in the least.

“Scotland Yard?” the clerk said, eyes opening wide. “You’re a detective?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, finally paying attention to the look of rapture on the young man’s face. He considered the ethics of abusing his position for about half a second before…“Look,” he leaned closer, flashing white teeth, “are you sure there’s not a seat anywhere?” He grinned conspiratorially. “I get the impression you know how to pull strings.”

The blatant flirting felt awkward but it was working, the young man practically drooling as Greg turned long forgotten charm his way.

“Well,” he said, tearing his eyes away to look at his computer screen. “You’re a police officer? Here on business?” Greg nodded. “I am authorised to offer upgrades to select individuals in certain circumstances.” He grinned at Greg. “At my discretion, of course.”

“Discretion is your middle name, I’m sure,” Greg purred, winking at him.

“Oh look, we have a seat in first class available,” the man gushed at him. “I’d be happy to offer you an upgrade. Your flight would leave in an hour and a half, direct to Heathrow, would that be acceptable?”

“Absolutely,” Greg said with relief. As the man printed his boarding pass he prattled on about the wonders of first class. Greg didn’t care right now; all he wanted was to be on some kind of vehicle heading for London.

“And of course there’s the first class lounge here at Tampo,” the man said, pulling Greg’s attention again. “You can have a drink, a shower, something to eat…” his expression made it clear he’d be happy to join Greg for any or all of those activities.

“Thanks,” Greg said, scratching his chin, wincing at the slightly stale smell of his body. He’d barely had time to pack before racing to the airport, so his luggage was an old carryall with a haphazard assortment of clothes, all dirty by now. It had to be checked in anyway, so he couldn’t access his stuff even if he’d wanted to. “There isn’t a clothing store somewhere, is there?” He grimaced. “I could do with something clean to wear.”

“Of course,” the man said. He prepared Greg’s paperwork, handing over the boarding pass, making sure their fingers brushed. “Head out to your left, you’ll see the stores right there.” He smiled suggestively again. “If you’re ever in South Africa again, give me a call.”

Greg nodded and smiled reflexively. He moved away, finding a bench and checking his boarding pass again. He hadn’t listened to a word the guy had said regarding his gate or the location of the first class lounge.

The cardboard envelope was stuffed with papers; he pulled them out, frowning. Along with his boarding pass was a business card (the young man’s, he assumed), a guide to the first class lounge and its amenities and a handful of vouchers. He assumed they were given to people whose flights were cancelled; they were for use in any shop in the airport, and judging by their collective value, he’d be comfortably able to collect a whole new outfit.

Greg felt guilty for about five seconds, before telling himself he deserved it. Besides, the clerk – Bandile Leopeng according to his card – had started flirting before Greg. And he hadn’t asked for all this stuff. Might as well use it.

+++

By the time he was standing by the gate waiting to board, Greg was a different man. He’d walked into the first clothing store he found and simply asked the assistant to find him something comfortable to travel in, from pants to a jacket and everything in between. The tailored trousers were not something he’d have chosen but they were surprisingly comfortable; matched with a deep green polo shirt, cashmere jumper and a new blazer, Greg felt better than he had in a long time. The assistant had offered a set of loose pyjamas too – he’d forgotten that travelling first class he might actually have a shot at getting some sleep. Everything was packed in a carrier bag nicer than his car so he could make his way to the first class lounge. Greg had to stop himself staring - the unfamiliar space breath-taking for its decadence.

He’d asked hesitantly after the showers and was immediately directed to a space bigger than his bedroom at home. Their toiletries smelled better than the cheap stuff he’d picked up, so he used them, noting the cologne as something he might splurge on when he arrived home. Like the clothes it was out of his comfort zone but good. In the interest of something different he trimmed the week’s growth on his jaw, leaving just a heavy shadow, wondering if it was something he wanted to keep. Greg shrugged at himself in the mirror. No need to decide now. It wasn’t as though he was going to see anyone he knew. Grinning to himself, Greg binned his old clothes. It felt like shedding a skin, almost.

There had been just enough time for a coffee (he wanted another but knew he’d regret not being able to sleep on the plane) and an incredible omelette before he was asked to make his way to gate 7. From grimy and stuck in Johannesburg to clean, full and on the way home – he was one happy camper.

It lasted all of five minutes.

As he walked to his gate, Greg’s reaction was faster than his brain. Confused, he blinked hard, wondering why he’d suddenly ducked behind the pole. Two breaths later, it came to him.

 _Camille_. He’d seen Camille, and his first response was to duck and hide.

That more or less summed up their marriage, actually.

Fingers pressed into the wall, Greg gave himself a pep talk. There were lots of gates. Lots of places she could be going. Lots of planes she could be boarding. Hell, he wasn’t even sure it was her.

When his name was called to the gate, Greg knew he could hide no longer. He breathed deeply a few times, picked up his bag and turned, smiling apologetically to the clerk as she checked his boarding pass.

His mind was still preoccupied when he stepped onto the plane, turning left as directed by the flight attendant. With just his small carrier to deal with Greg dropped directly into his seat without looking around, closing his eyes in relief. He was here. The lingering anxiety that he’d be called back for something was gone; he was on his way home, eleven and a half uninterrupted hours before he landed to the shit-storm of consequences for his absence.

“Detective Inspector?”

Greg didn’t open his eyes, hoping there was another copper on board to answer. No such luck.

“Gregory?” The voice was tentative as it addressed him again.

There was no ignoring this one, so Greg turned to his left, his mind taking a moment to place the voice.

“Hello, Mycroft,” he replied eventually, opening his eyes. The man looked exactly as he always did with one exception. The slightly surprised look made Greg smile a little.

“I did not expect to see you here,” Mycroft said.

“What, in first class?” Greg asked. “Or Johannesburg?”

Mycroft tilted his head, dry amusement in his eyes. “Either, to be truthful.”

“Ah well,” Greg said. “Long story short I was chasing– but I get the feeling you might know.”

“Well, I can make an educated guess,” Mycroft replied. “Given the recent request for extradition paperwork from Johannesburg for a certain kidnapper.”

“Exactly,” Greg said. He grinned at Mycroft, relieved he wouldn’t have to make polite small talk, especially about work. This was meant to be a break, a brief respite from his real life. “I won’t ask why you’re here. I assume it’s work related.” Mycroft inclined his head. “I did kind of imagine you’d be on a private jet, though.”

“I was in fact in Pretoria on business,” Mycroft confirmed, “however my schedule was open ended and so a flight could not be scheduled in advance. When my meeting concluded this afternoon I had the option of taking this flight or waiting until tomorrow.”

Greg was nodding before Mycroft had even finished speaking. “Just want to get home, right?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg did not reply, but relaxed a little into his seat. It had been weeks since he’d had an excuse to call Mycroft, and with John helping manage Sherlock, Mycroft hadn’t called him either. Until he had spoken now Greg didn’t realise how much he’d missed the dry sense of humour and the subtly expressive face. Sally had always thought Mycroft was creepy, the way he looked so intently at you while he was speaking, but Greg secretly liked it.  

He didn’t inspect the reason why too deeply. Some truths were best left unexamined, especially when they concerned Mycroft Holmes.

The flight attendant came around, offering drinks and fancy amenity kits. Mycroft declined but Greg accepted his, pulling each item out, grinning to himself. This was so ridiculous. So much stuff he’d never use again, and probably not even on this flight – but he still kind of wanted it. It kept him occupied through the safety briefing and take off; by the time they’d levelled out, he was almost done.

“Your first trip in first class?” a voice murmured from beside him. Greg glanced up from experimentally stretching the elastic of his eye mask to see Mycroft watching him with undisguised amusement.

“How can you tell?” Greg asked. He wasn’t self-conscious; this was probably the only time he’d ever ride in first class and he was going to enjoy every second of it. “Tell me, how silly you do think I look in these?” He pulled the eye mask over his eyes, turning towards Mycroft with a silly grin. He couldn’t see anything, but he imagined a suppressed smile on Mycroft’s face.

“On a scale of not at all to extremely?” Mycroft asked.

Greg lifted one corner, peering up at Mycroft, his silly grin relaxing into genuine amusement at the silliness. “Yes,” he answered seriously. “I trust your opinion, of course.”

“Greg?”

The voice came from beyond Mycroft; Greg knew it immediately. The smile slid from his face, his posture straightened reflexively. Slowly, he reached up and removed the face mask, breathing deeply as he forced his eyes beyond Mycroft’s face to the blonde standing the aisle.

 _Fuck,_ his brain screamed. _Fuck._

“Hello, Camille,” he said woodenly.

She blinked at him, before the smirk he knew too well spread over her face, twisting her otherwise attractive features into that nasty, snide mask.

Greg felt his heart jump into double time. He wasn’t prepared for this, despite glimpsing her earlier.

“What are _you_ doing _here_?” she asked, not bothering to hide the disbelief. Unlike Mycroft’s question, there was no doubt in Greg’s mind that she meant _here in first class, where you clearly don’t belong_.

Her eyes roved over his face and clothes. It was a lot different to anything he’d worn when they’d been together. “Interesting new look,” she said. “I didn’t realise M&S was into textiles now.”

“Actually it’s Cruciani,” Mycroft said, injecting himself into the silence. “Their newest range. The colour brings out his eyes, don’t you think?”

Greg’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t speak, which was moot because his brain was in neutral.

“Gregory is here with me,” Mycroft added smoothly.

Greg’s brain was still stuttering along, barely managing basic life support, but the warm weight of Mycroft’s hand landing on his did register.

Camille’s face slackened in shock before her mouth tightened again. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we have not,” Mycroft agreed. To Greg’s astonishment he turned away from Camille, effectively ending the conversation. At the same time his fingers tilted Greg’s chin towards him, eyes capturing Greg’s, sending a clear message: _trust me_.

The shock of the whole situation rendered Greg incapable of making any independent decisions; consequently he found himself holding onto Mycroft’s eyes with his own. They were clear and quietly confident, and as Greg watched, they crinkled gently. Relief flowed through Greg and he felt his shoulders relax and his own mouth curve upwards in response. The rest of the world receded for a few moments as he drank in Mycroft’s gentle support, slowing his breathing and soothing his nerves.

“I believe she has gone,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg blinked, the spell broken. Looking past Mycroft’s shoulder he saw nobody; Camille was indeed gone. He exhaled, not realising how shallowly he’d been breathing. Mycroft was still looking at him intently, eyes soft but increasingly shuttered; Greg wondered if he was regretting stepping in.

“Thanks,” Greg said, sitting back a little – when had he leaned in so far? Mycroft followed suit, clearing his throat, looking away. Greg wondered if he was blushing to match Mycroft – the warmth he could feel in his cheeks might certainly mean he was as pink as the man in front of him.

“I’m assuming you won’t be asking me to switch seats so you can sit together,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled at him. “No,” he agreed. He felt like he owed Mycroft an explanation, especially as they would probably have to deal with her again, vindictive bitch that she was.

“Ex-wife,” was all he could manage, the apologetic expression automatic after having to smooth the waters in Camille’s wake. “Two years ago. Not all that amicable, really.”

“No, she’s not,” Mycroft said pointedly. When he pressed his fingers gently into Greg’s, the small gesture of support was so tentative and genuine Greg felt himself unexpectedly moved.

“Well the next eleven and a half hours won’t be as boring as I’d thought,” Greg said gamely. He wanted to know where Camille was sitting now, but keeping his head down seemed far more important. He’d learned long ago to keep out of the line of fire.

Mycroft opened his mouth then closed it. Greg caught the hesitant look and with a flash of insight knew what Mycroft was thinking.

“Knowing Camille,” Greg said carefully, “she’ll keep coming back past here. And she’ll talk to you if you walk past her seat.” He took a deep breath. “Do you think…I mean, if you’d be okay with it, could we…”

Mycroft’s face softened into an affectionate smile, his fingers shifting to slide between Greg’s, anchoring their hands together. It was enough to answer Greg’s question and coincidentally send a twinge to the unacknowledged desire now squirming to be seen.

“Certainly,” Mycroft said. His face became mischievous. “How would you like to play this?”

Greg blinked. “What?” he said.

“Well,” Mycroft said, and Greg could see him choosing his words carefully, “I’m not sure I’d be willing to try joining the mile high club for her benefit, but we could certainly…have some fun with the situation.”

The idea of joining the mile high club with Mycroft was…interesting. Something Greg couldn’t work through with Mycroft sitting right here. The other idea, though…

“So this won’t be a boring flight, then?” Greg said, grinning, flexing the fingers entwined with Mycroft’s. “I’ll follow your lead. I’m up for pretty much anything. Probably best not to do the mile high thing, though, you’re right.”

His conspiratorial smile was returned, and Greg barely managed to withhold the shudder that threatened.

“I will leave you for a moment,” Mycroft said. He leaned in closer, whispering, “Reconnaissance.”

Greg found himself smiling after Mycroft as he stood gracefully, making his way to the toilets at the front of the first class cabin. He moved confidently even though the relatively cramped space. Greg found the few moments he was gone to be strangely lonely. He felt vulnerable without Mycroft’s quiet confidence. If he had to deal with Camille, at least he had backup.

When long legs slipped back into the seat beside him, Greg had fiddled with the divider between their seats, dropping it as low as it would go. At the same time he pulled closed his door, effectively forming a private room. He hoped Mycroft wouldn’t mind. They were meant to be together, after all. He turned toward Mycroft, thrilled to see his posture mirrored by the other man – and his door closed, too.

“So?” Greg asked, grinning. It felt like school, sneaking around spying on his ex, enlisting a friend to help. Meeting behind the shelter sheds to swap gossip.

“She’s in the first row in the centre, right hand side,” Mycroft replied. “I did not stop to speak to her; she avoided my gaze in this instance.” He smiled back with the same elated energy Greg had felt. “I deduced a number of details, if you’re interested.”

“Of course I am!” Greg replied. “Well, in the context of this whole disaster, I am.” He actually didn’t care what Camille was doing with her life in general, and for some reason it was important to say so.

“Very well,” Mycroft said. He paused for a moment, ordering his thoughts. “She is travelling with a partner. No wedding ring, but they certainly have a sexual relationship. I suspect it is mutually beneficial in that he has an attractive woman at his side, while she shows clear signs of a high maintenance lifestyle.” He looked at Greg. “Does that sound plausible?”

“Absolutely,” Greg said immediately. Reading between the lines, Camille had a sugar Daddy. Greg was not in the least surprised; her excessive demands were one of their recurring arguments.

“Having said that, I anticipate they will part ways in less than six months,” Mycroft continued. “There are a number of signs that he is tiring of her. She is aware of the altered dynamic but has not made the connection between her own behaviour and his displeasure.”

Greg nodded. He could feel his mind partitioning itself automatically, removing the emotional connection so he could function effectively. A handy professional skill, as it turned out.

“Given your knowledge of her,” Mycroft said, “what do you predict she will do for the duration of the flight?”

Greg could answer immediately; he’d thought about it while Mycroft was in the toilets. “She’ll take a bit of time, probably thinking I’ll be down here stressing. She’ll come past, pretending to be nice, asking about us, looking for weakness.” He felt his face grow hot as he brought up details of her tactics long buried. “She’ll be condescending. Belittle whatever details she can get. Probably have a go at your suit.” Greg tried to make a joke but knew it fell flat. Averting his eyes, he added quietly, “Brace yourself for some fairly crude innuendo, if not outright comments about my, um, performance. And physique, commitment, sexuality...” He sighed as the memories rushed back.

“Stuff you should know about me. My dad split, went on the run after a botched robbery and I carried a pretty big chip on my shoulder. Still do a little bit,” he admitted. “Mum is great, we’re really close, but she drinks a lot and she’s not always…available. I don’t do well with people who drink a lot.”

Understatement of the year – Camille’s casual habit of a bottle of wine a night was a constant source of friction. She’d loved to taunt him, raising her glass to him when he arrived home, often later than he’d planned. _I don’t need you_ , _I have wine_.

Greg knew he was lost in his memories, the anxiety of those times coming back to him, dragging him down.

“Greg.” His name was soft, but it reached him, drawing him carefully back to the plane. To Mycroft, who was turned towards him, eyes concerned, looking at him the way Greg secretly loved – deeply, as though he could see _Greg_ , the person, not Greg the copper, or Greg the sad divorced bastard.

It made him shiver, and in that moment – with his heart vulnerable, his pathetic marriage laid bare – Greg knew Mycroft could see how much he cherished the direct gaze. The reddish eyebrows rose slightly and Greg felt himself shift uncomfortably, though he held Mycroft’s eyes. If there was ever a time to try and lower his walls, this was it.

He felt safe with Mycroft.

“Okay,” Mycroft said softly. “Thank you for sharing that. I did not wish to pry…”

“I know,” Greg said. “More intel is always better. And I don’t mind you knowing.” Their smiles were tentative, and Greg wondered suddenly how Mycroft really felt about _him_. He’d never really thought about it but now, considering how willing he was to take part in this, how gentle he was being, how carefully he was watching Greg…had always watched Greg…

He wondered. Now probably wasn’t the time to ask – to mistake friendship, camaraderie for something more would be humiliating to say the least. Especially when he’d just admitted how damaging his last relationship had been.

“Please excuse the personal nature of these questions,” Mycroft said. His eyes were still soft, but Greg could hear the professional tone in his voice. He was in work mode too, at least a little; for some reason it made Greg feel better. If there was anyone he wanted in his corner in this situation, it was Mycroft the professional.

“Of course,” Greg said. He took a deep breath, anchoring himself to those grey eyes. “I told you, I trust you. Shoot.” Impulsively, he reached for Mycroft’s hand, taking the physical contact as a second anchor.

“If we are to be convincing,” Mycroft began, then paused. “I apologise if this is…do you have a lot of undercover experience?”

“Not for a long time,” Greg replied. “Assume I know nothing, that way we’ll be on the same page.”

“If we are to be convincing,” Mycroft began again, “we will have to follow each other’s lead. There’s no time for a detailed background.”

“Agreed,” Greg said. “So new relationship, then?”

Mycroft’s eye glinted with satisfaction – Greg had obviously read his mind there. “I believe that will be easiest. It will account for differences in our stories, should any arise. It does also come with obvious physical markers, however.”

“New relationship, affectionate,” Greg summarised, heart thumping hard before settling back again.

“Precisely,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg felt a thrill at the knowledge they were working well together already.

“If we follow the truth closely it will be more believable,” Mycroft continued. “Thus, we met through our association with Sherlock, began having dinners together, and one night ended up drinking at my Club.”

“One thing lead to another,” Greg took up the narrative, smiling at Mycroft, “and you kissed me.”

“I did?” Mycroft murmured.

Greg registered that he’d drifted closer, turning more completely, matching Mycroft’s sideways position on his seat. He couldn’t help his eyes drifting lower, watching Mycroft’s mouth move as he asked the question.

“Yep,” Greg replied. “I’m rubbish when it comes to making the first move.”

“Noted,” Mycroft replied, and he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Greg’s.

Greg inhaled sharply, hand forming into a fist without a thought; he had to contain his reaction. Couldn’t let Mycroft see his true response to this, chaste as it was. It wasn’t real, he told himself. But it had to look real. Hesitantly he brought his hand up, pressing on Mycroft’s neck, stroking the little hairs at his nape. He felt the noise rather than heard it; it vibrated through his palm.

“First kiss,” Greg whispered, pulling back. “Exactly like that.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

Greg opened his eyes, startled to see Mycroft’s lids still closed; he opened them a second later, blinking at Greg.

“And how long ago was that?” Greg asked. They were still close, and he justified his lack of action by telling himself they needed to appear intimate. Surely this was as close as any middle aged men would want to get on a plane – faces close together, murmuring sweet nothings.

Or getting their story straight.

“Not longer than six weeks,” Mycroft replied. “Our last dinner was five weeks three days ago.”

Greg grinned. “Of course you know that.”

“Do you remember where we ate?” Mycroft asked, one eyebrow rising in challenge.

“La Rosso,” Greg replied immediately. “You had the salmon, I had the veal scallopini, we shared the chocolate lava cake.”

“Very good,” Mycroft said.

“I am a detective, you know,” Greg replied, teasing. Without thinking he leaned in, dropping a light kiss on Mycroft’s smiling lips. Before he could pull away, Mycroft had met him, lips moving a little before pulling away.

Greg could feel the apology on his lips, but Mycroft beat him to it, speaking first.

“Do not apologise,” he said. Squeezing Greg’s hand, he added, “given the short but intense nature of this mission,” he glanced at Greg, who rolled his eyes at the blatantly ‘spy’ terminology, “it will be easier to maintain if we do not slip in and out of character.”

The ‘spy’ terminology was amusing, but Greg felt the inadvertent cold water on his blossoming intuition. Mycroft was playing a role, nothing more. He should do the same. Protect himself.

“Okay,” Greg agreed. He grinned, trying to lighten the mood as he eased back, putting some space between them. “We should choose a movie or something. Can’t sit here like this for the whole flight.”

“I had intended to sleep for at least a few hours,” Mycroft said. “I will be expected back at work directly from the airport.”

“Christ, really?” Greg asked. “Well, they’ll be serving dinner soon, so how about a movie with dinner, then we can try and get some sleep?”

Mycroft smiled. “The beds are far more comfortable than you would expect,” he said, smiling as Greg realised they had actual beds. “The flight attendant will make up your bed at your request.”

“Excellent,” Greg breathed. “Man, this is going to ruin me for air travel.”

The attendant brought around menus at that point, and he and Mycroft were debating the merit of beef fillet vs duck when a voice sounded from outside Greg’s door.

“Greg, you never introduced me to your…friend.”

Greg froze, then turned to see Camille, her ‘prime bitch’ face well and truly in place.

 _I left the door open after the attendant left. Rookie mistake._ He felt Mycroft’s hand steal onto his knee. Despite the awkwardness of craning his neck, Greg did not shift his body around – he didn’t want to settle into this conversation at all. Let her think she’d interrupted, assuming she even recognised the body language. Or cared.

Tempted though he was to simply agree and turn back to Mycroft, Greg relented. “Camille Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes.”

“It’s Monroe, actually,” Camille said with the condescension she used so liberally throughout their marriage.

“Monroe Lestrade? Pleased to meet you,” Mycroft said smoothly, the insincerity dripping from his voice. He shifted his hand on Greg’s knee – not moving towards his groin, just enough of a motion to draw Camille’s attention.

“Camille Monroe,” she corrected him. A sweeping gaze, another smirk. “So you’re Greg’s current toy-boy, then?”

“Clearly,” Mycroft replied, showing his teeth. It could hardly be called a smile. He did not rise to the bait, her barb going unacknowledged. If Greg knew anything though, it was that her arsenal was deep and varied.

“I didn’t realise you’d finally settled,” Camille said, switching her attention to Greg. “On men, I mean.” She laughed a false laugh. “One night stands with men, relationships with women. Wasn’t that your jam?”

“Maybe,” Greg replied, his heart pounding. Fuck, he’d never imagined he’d have to play this game again. “I read somewhere that everybody’s a mistake ‘til you meet the right one, so who knows?” he smiled with amusement he did not feel. “I figure an open mind is a good thing.”

“Character is so much more important than anything else, don’t you agree?” Mycroft asked smoothly, drawing Camille before her narrowed eyes and tight mouth could manifest in another attack on Greg. “Money, for example.”

Camille’s eyes blazed, and without a word she turned and made her way back towards the front of the plane. Greg felt Mycroft’s hand tighten on his knee, the sensation removed from the pounding in his head and burning in his lungs. He breathed harsh and deep, not realising that again, Camille’s very presence had triggered a deep stress response.

“Are you okay?” Mycroft asked.

Greg put his hand over Mycroft’s, eyes closed, still breathing. Now was not the time for an anxiety attack.

“Thank you,” Greg said quietly. He kept his eyes closed, Mycroft’s hand warm under his. When the flight attendant came around he heard Mycroft’s quiet voice ordering meals and arranging for their beds to be readied immediately after the meal. He was grateful for Mycroft’s intuitive sense of what he needed, giving him space when he needed it, pulling Camille away when his grip on his control was lacking.

Greg knew he was falling deeper for Mycroft, despite his warnings to himself. Such proximity was showing him a considerate man, kind and brave. Most importantly he was tuned in to Greg to a remarkable degree. It wasn’t something you could fake. You either gelled with someone or you didn’t; the combination was potent. Greg didn’t know how well he was going to be able to separate the ‘mission’ from his growing affection.

If he kept going with the charade they’d fallen into, there was a good chance he’d step off the plane at Heathrow well and truly in love with Mycroft.

If he stopped it, admitted the ruse to Camille, it would be hours and hours of uncomfortable comments, and he’d step off the plane at Heathrow well and truly back in the headspace he’d been in after his divorce, a smug and nasty ex-wife shadowing him.

Greg knew which he’d rather live with when real life resumed back in London.

_Better to have loved and lost…_

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, looking at Mycroft with affection. “I get the feeling I’m going to be thanking you a whole lot on this flight,” he said.

“You could save them up and thank me in one grand gesture at the end of the flight,” Mycroft suggested.

“Really,” Greg said, the crude suggestion coming to mind. “Did you have something in mind?” He waggled his eyebrows, and at Mycroft’s confused look added, “wink, wink, nudge, nudge, d’ja know what I mean?”

When Mycroft’s expression slid into understanding, then amusement, Greg grinned at him. “I knew you’d know Monty Python.”

“Of course I do,” Mycroft replied. “I used to be able to recite the entire dead parrot sketch from memory.”

Greg snorted. “’Used to’?” he asked. The pink of Mycroft’s cheeks was adorable, he decided.

“I’m sure I have stored the memory somewhere,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg did his best to quell the surge of achievement at finding out this new titbit. Every fact built up Greg’s knowledge of this enigmatic man. He was turning out to be far too likeable. _Loveable_ , whispered a small voice.

Greg ignored it, taking himself to the toilet, taking the moment of solitude to try and steel himself. There was no way to do it, though. He couldn’t hold back and be convincing; he wasn’t that good an actor. So it was destruction either way – his heart rent apart by unrequited love or his self-esteem destroyed by a torrent of well-placed barbs.

He hated that Camille still had that power, but he couldn’t deny it was true. She had an unerring sense of what would hurt him, and it seemed that two years had not made her heart grow fonder. She would never be able to just ignore him, walk past and pretend he didn’t exist. In the end, that was the deciding factor for Greg.

He had to shut her down, right here on this flight, and he needed Mycroft to do it. If he didn’t, she would cast a long shadow over the rest of his life. He wanted to put the whole disaster of a marriage behind him, and this was his chance to show her how little her words affected him.

Greg finished his ablutions on auto-pilot, steeling himself to see Camille on the way back.

Sure enough, she was staring right at the door as he exited, sitting up very straight to be able to catch his eye over the partition. She spoke first, practically calling him over. His mind was still fierce, and he met her gaze, deliberately stopping to visibly consider whether he would speak to her or not. He smirked as he walked over; she was rattled by his confidence.

“Greg, I need to introduce you to Andre Villeneux,” she purred, one hand on the arm of her seatmate.

“Why?” Greg asked blankly. When the man frowned at him, Greg glanced at him with deliberate distraction. “Sorry, mate, do I know you?”

“No,” he said shortly.

“Right,” Greg said. “I’m her ex,” he jerked his head at an outraged Camille, “not sure why I need to meet you. Anyway, enjoy your flight.”

He turned back to walk to his seat without a backwards glance, keeping his pace casual until he dropped into his seat, turning automatically in to Mycroft, slightly hysterical giggles spilling out as adrenalin flooded him.

“Greg?” Mycroft asked in amazement.

“I may have poked the dragon,” he admitted, another giggle escaping.

Mycroft smiled and Greg could feel the affection coming off him. “A dangerous game, Greg,” he chastised.

“Yeah, but I’ve got you now,” Greg said. “Never had that kind of backup before.”

Mycroft nodded. “I appreciate your faith in me,” he said seriously.

Their mealtime passed without incident, the food far better than Greg had ever experienced on a plane. As predicted, his bed was made up while he brushed his teeth and changed into the soft travel pyjamas the sales assistant had recommended. The fabric was divine, and Greg reckoned he’d sleep well that night. It didn’t hurt to have Mycroft beside him, either.

They’d chosen a movie – The Life of Brian, something they’d both seen but still enjoyed – and had settled into their own little world, the ‘Do Not Disturb until breakfast’ signs up on their doors. They weren’t cuddling, exactly, but both bodies gravitated towards the middle of the bed, shoulders touching, feet tangled. Greg wished he could relax completely but part of him was still anticipating another assault by Camille. He’d avoided her when changing, but the dissatisfaction from their previous exchange had been clear. She’d always been one to have the last word, and he doubted she’d wait until the end of the flight to try and claim it. With Mycroft beside him, Greg felt far more confident that he ever had dealing with her, but he was hardly looking forward to it.

On the screen, Brian’s mum was berating him when a figure caught his eye beside his bed. Camille stood there, her head barely visible over his closed door.

With a sigh, Greg paused the movie and opened his door. He felt Mycroft shift behind him, placing one hand on his lower back; a subtle message of support.

“Yes?” Greg asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

“What is your problem?” Camille hissed at him. He could see the strain in her face as she struggled to convey her outrage while keeping her voice down.

A quiet argument – not her forte.

“What?” Greg asked. He had an idea what she was talking about, but Mycroft’s initial strategy of not engaging her had been working beautifully, so he went with it.

“I was trying to introduce you to Andre!” she hissed. “You could at least show him some basic courtesy.”

“Why?” Greg asked. When her eyes threatened to pop out of her skull, he clarified, “Why did you need to introduce me to him?” She sputtered for a second. “Why do I need to know him, Camille? We’re not married anymore. I haven’t even seen you in over a year, I’m seeing someone else-”

“Yeah, for how long,” she interrupted rudely.

“-long enough to know it’s a grown up relationship. Where we talk to each other. Support each other. And don’t make passive aggressive attempts to make people from our past feel like shit because we’re envious of their happiness.”

Greg’s mouth had moved faster than his brain, but he could tell from her pale face he had hit gold.

“Look, Camille, go and sit with Andre. Have a great life. But if you see me somewhere, don’t come and talk to me. You had the chance to do that when we were married, but it’s gone now.”

Carefully, Greg closed the door, pulling his eyes away from the livid woman on the other side. He turned the movie back on and scooted over next to Mycroft, watching the screen, not trusting himself to look into those understanding eyes. He felt more than saw Camille depart, taking her outrage with her.

As soon as she was gone, Mycroft turned off the movie. Their cocoon darkened as the screen went black. After a moment Greg’s eyes adjusted to the muted lighting, a world of blue-grey slowing being realised.

“I would like to congratulate you on your poise,” Mycroft said carefully, eyes searching Greg’s face in the dim light. “How do you feel about that conversation? Are you alright?”

Greg had slumped down against his pillow, heart pounding. That was the first conversation he’d actually stood up for himself, properly, without her sneering and dismissing his words. It was almost an out of body experience, the stress taking him out of the moment, his mouth moving automatically. Her words had lacked their usual spike, and Greg knew it was he who was different. She would never change.

“I’m not saying I want to ruin her life or anything,” Greg said. How could he put it without sounding like he did actually want that? “I saw her at the airport. I was hiding behind a pole before I even realised.” He collected his thoughts. “I would have seen her eventually once we were in the air, I know. But…” he paused, frustrated at his lack of erudition. “She approached me. Us. You saw her face, she was…nasty. Went out of her way to make me feel…” Greg felt his emotions rise again and swallowed them down, pushing them back like he had for so much of his marriage. Words rose in his head, words thrown at him long ago, vicious barbs designed to wound.

_Inadequate. Selfish. Unambitious loser. Looking old. Greedy fucking bisexual…_

“I understand,” Mycroft said quietly. “She is not content to let your connection cease.”

A laugh burbled up, alarmingly close to a sob. Greg closed his eyes. “No,” he whispered. “I don’t know why she’s so…”

“Some people are just vindictive,” Mycroft whispered.

When Greg inhaled, shaky and wet, he suddenly found himself gathered in, cradled against Mycroft’s chest. It felt like heaven, being surrounded by Mycroft – scent, sound, touch.

“Her behaviour is not a reflection of you, Greg.” Mycroft’s words were barely whispered, his mouth beside Greg’s ear. Secret words of affirmation, spoken directly to Greg’s broken soul. “Her behaviour is classic manipulation. She is a deeply insecure person, and she lashes out in an attempt to both draw attention from her own shortcomings and make herself feel superior. I want to reassure you…nothing you could have done differently would change her behaviour. She is an astute judge of other people’s weaknesses and uses them mercilessly. You are guilty only of having weaknesses, Greg. An affliction that affects us all.”

Mycroft’s words were so soft, growing into an earnest effort at persuasion.

Greg felt tears build behind his eyes, slipping quietly down his cheeks as Mycroft continued.

“Your weakness around that woman,” he was glad Mycroft had not said her name, “is sentiment. You care about people, about helping people, about how you interact with them, about how they see you. Most people see this as a strength, as they should. Your empathy makes you the very best of the Scotland Yarders, Greg. You search for justice, not arrests, an admirable quality. Do not berate yourself for wanting to rid yourself from the shadow of that woman. You deserve to live in the sun, with a partner who appreciates your kind compassionate nature, Greg. I will help you to the very best of my abilities, with the express goal of ensuring she no longer targets you, should your paths cross.”

Mycroft’s words were gentle, lulling Greg into a calmness despite the tears still flowing across his face. There was a wet patch on Mycroft’s t-shirt where the tears had soaked in, but Greg couldn’t care. The steady flow felt cleansing, combining with Mycroft’s words to help dissolve the old pains calcified in Greg’s soul.

Mycroft’s voice grew lower, murmuring as Greg’s breathing slowed and he drifted, barely hearing the words, allowing the rise and fall of the language carry him off to sleep.

+++

Breakfast was as good as the previous meal. Greg felt much better, having slept well. Mycroft had been attentive this morning without bringing up their whispered conversation the night before. It was awkward, Greg wanting to thank him for his discretion without actually broaching the topic. In the end he just smiled as fondly as he could, hoping the message was received.

From the way Mycroft’s eyes lingered, it seemed there was no mistaking it. They talked quietly, reclining in their beds until Gabrielle the flight attendant tactfully asked if she could prepare their space for breakfast. Greg immediately stood up, flashing her a smile and collecting his things. To his surprise she blushed, and he grinned to himself the whole way to the bathroom and back. It didn’t hurt that Camille was still sleeping or something – she left him alone, at any rate.

When Greg returned, dressed again in his new clothes, Mycroft was also dressed, though Greg had no idea if it was the same as yesterday. Different tie, he thought; dark suit and white shirt, a fairly standard outfit for him.

“Your attire is different to your usual style,” Mycroft said, eyes drifting down Greg and back. It wasn’t lost on Greg that his eyes lingered in a few places; his heart lurched at the possibility.

“Yeah,” Greg said, running one hand over the jumper, then up to his stubble. “I never told you about what happened at the airport, did I?”

He proceeded to outline everything from his shameless flirting at the check in – “You’re blushing, Greg,” – to his initial impression of the first class lounge.

Mycroft had smiled the patient smile of a man who no longer noticed the excesses of first class. “The shop assistant made good choices,” he said. “The colour of that jumper is extremely complimentary.”

“So are you,” Greg told him, holding his eyes, affection spooling between them. His body almost started moving to kiss Mycroft, the action natural after their exchange, but he hesitated.

They would land in less than two hours. Camille would probably not even speak to them again, but it was agreed they would continue their charade until she was well and truly gone. And then Mycroft would pull on his mask again, hiding the warmth and affection Greg had come to rely on, bizarrely enough, and he would walk away. With Greg’s heart securely tied to his.

He needed to keep things in perspective.

Just as Greg made to turn away, Mycroft did exactly what he’d been stopping himself doing. One hand on his cheek, fingers rubbing against the scruff, curved lips pressing onto his for a glorious moment.

“Complimentary,” Mycroft replied, cheek brushing Greg’s, “but not free.”

Greg frowned a little. He understood the dual meanings of the word – the joke about the complementary bar nuts was a classic – but something in Mycroft’s voice made him pause.

“What?” he asked.

Mycroft took a deep breath, only to be interrupted by a shrill voice behind him.

“What are you doing? That is fucking disgusting, Christ!”

Greg froze, his body reacting automatically to that tone, the disgust evident for all to hear.

_Camille. Fuck._

Mycroft snapped out of his pause first, turning to face the furious blonde. He deliberately dropped one hand to Greg’s, holding it firmly as he spoke in an icy tone. “I beg your pardon?”

“You two! That’s revolting!”

Greg could see the malice in her eyes, and his stomach dropped 35,000 feet to the earth as he knew what she was going to do.

“Ma’am, can I help you? Please keep your voice down,” Gabrielle appeared as though by magic, her eyes bouncing between Camille and the two men.

“These two!” Camille shrieked, pointing at them, “were…well, I can’t even say.”

Greg could hear the rustle of other people turning to look at the disruption. Gabrielle looked confused until Camille went on in a stage whisper that carried to all corners, “That man was sucking on his genitals!”

The phrasing was so awkward, and the idea so ludicrous and embarrassing Greg burst out laughing.

Gabrielle looked at him, a mute appeal to explain what was going on.

“Look, I haven’t moved since you got here,” Greg said, raising his free hand. “Neither’s Mycroft. You arrived what, two seconds after she shrieked?”

She nodded.

“If we were really, doing that, one of us would have had to adjust ourselves, do you agree?”

Another nod, this time with a faint glimmer of hope that Greg would be able to make a reasonable argument.

“And if neither of us has moved, and we had been doing that, we’d definitely not be able to do this.”

Mycroft followed his lead beautifully as Greg stood up, his hands raised, the front of his trousers clearly fastened, clean and dry.

The attendant’s face was crimson as she glanced at them both and then at Camille. Greg and Mycroft also turned to her.

The smug look appeared without a single bit of effort from Greg. “They were!” she said. “And I walked past last night, they were doing the same thing, it was awful, I didn’t want to make a fuss…”

Greg snorted again, unable to keep his disbelief to himself. Now that he was no longer cowed by her accusations, Greg felt the freedom of actually reacting as he saw fit to her delusions.

“Given the way you’ve gone about this, I doubt there’s anyone in first class that would believe you wanted to avoid a scene,” he said flatly. “For the record, Mycroft and I have not been intimate in any way during this flight.” He eyed his ex-wife. “Mycroft, I’m fairly sure there’s security footage of this cabin, am I right?”

“Why yes, Greg, I believe there is.”

“So even if you did walk past last night, and even if you did hear something, given your height, you would have had to stand on tiptoe to see over the wall here.” Camille flushed as both Mycroft and Gabrielle assessed his allegation, finding it true.

“I’ll assume you just happened to bring your night vision goggles, too,” Greg said, feeling himself becoming sarcastic and not caring in the least, “because it was pitch black in here. Oh, and some x-ray vision wouldn’t have gone astray, what with the layers of blankets. I’m sure you remember how cold I get at night. With the air-conditioning on, there was no way I’d be pulling back the covers. No offense, Mycroft.”

“None taken,” Mycroft replied smoothly, squeezing Greg’s fingers.

There was a beat of silence as Camille stood, gaping like a fish in the face of Greg’s merciless decimation of her story. For a split second, Greg thought she might slink back to her seat.

“You fucking whore,” she breathed at Mycroft. “I will fucking kill you, you stuck up arsehole!”

With a scream she dove at Mycroft, long nails scratching at him, teeth bared.

Greg was at a slight disadvantage, what with his left hand tangled with Mycroft’s. It didn’t stop him stepping forward without a thought, his fist connecting beautifully with Camille’s eye socket.

She was knocked sideways into the wall, and the crack told Greg she’d cracked a rib at the very least before slumping awkwardly, half on Mycroft’s seat, half on the floor. Her expression was dazed and she didn’t move.

Dead silence reigned until Gabrielle gasped. It was a horrified sound. “I am so sorry,” she breathed, looking at Greg.

“Why?” Greg said. “This was not your fault. She’s…fairly emotionally compromised by this,” he waved one hand between himself and Mycroft. It hurt his knuckles; he hoped he could get some ice. The punch had been awkward, both the timing and the angle not quite right. “She’s been a bit of a hassle, but nothing we couldn’t handle,” he added, looking at Mycroft.

A blinding smile met his, blue-grey eyes adoring him.

“Well either way, the airline will certainly be making an apology for allowing this to happen,” Gabrielle repeated, looking anxious.

“Myc?” Greg asked quietly.

He raised one eyebrow at the nickname, but addressed Greg’s plea. “Gabrielle?” he addressed the attendant. “Rest assured there will be no repercussions for you in this matter.” He reached into his wallet, passing her a card. Greg couldn’t see what was printed on the dark grey card, but it made the girl’s eyes widen.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “If it’s not too much trouble, I have two security personnel travelling in economy. I’m certain they could be prevailed upon to secure Ms. Monroe with them until we land in London on charges of,” he looked at Greg.

“Disturbing the peace, threats to kill, attempted assault, and I’m sure there are some airline specific regulations she’s broken,” Greg replied easily.

“Of course,” Gabrielle replied, as Mycroft gave her the seat numbers. A moment later two be-suited men arrived, collecting the now furious Camille and taking her back to their row. She’d be stuck between them, Greg assumed; he could not bring himself to care.

_Ran out of fucks a long time ago._

The rest of first class watched along with he and Mycroft, some looking outraged, others vaguely interested. As he turned back to Mycroft, someone else caught his eye. Andre, looking bewildered, head popped up from his seat at the front. Greg was about to go and speak to him, but the two men caught each other’s eye. He was amused to see Andre roll his eyes theatrically before turning to sit down again. A seasoned player in Camille’s little tragedy, then.

“We will be landing fairly soon, gentlemen,” Gabrielle told them, returning brightly. “Can I offer you a bottle of wine on the house?”

“On the plane, you mean,” Greg said grinning at his own joke.

“Of course,” Gabrielle replied.

“Had that one a few times?” he asked her ruefully.

“Yes sir,” she admitted with a guilty smile.

“It might be a little early for wine,” Greg told her, feeling Mycroft nod beside him. “I could go another round of dessert from last night, though, if you could find any in the galley?”

“I’m sure I could,” she smiled at him.

“Gregory,” Mycroft rebuked him.

“What?” he said. “I just took out a dangerous threat to our flight. I’m a hero!”

“Of course you are,” Mycroft murmured, stepping into Greg’s space, hands running up his arms until they encircled him. The sensation felt natural as he tilted his head up a little, relishing the new knowledge of exactly how much taller Mycroft was, exactly how far he had to look up to meet those remarkable eyes.

Greg was still getting used to seeing them warm with emotion – amusement, concern, affection; nothing he would have associated with Mycroft before this flight. He liked it.

He would miss it.

Greg swallowed, feeling the sadness steal across his face.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked quietly. His own expression had shifted from the easy affection of earlier into something more apprehensive.

Greg sighed. There was no point having this conversation now, when they still had to sit together for the rest of the flight. Better to play it cool until they landed.

“Just, you know, Camille,” Greg said, mentally apologising for the omission. He was a bit bummed by her outburst, but Mycroft was far more important to him than she was. He felt Mycroft shift, pulling him in closer. Soft hands slid along his back, and Greg savoured the sensation. The soothing slide would soon be a memory. His skin would forget.

“Would you like to watch a film?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. He didn’t care as long as he could sit with Mycroft, drink in each minute until they landed.

+++

Like all moments to be dreaded, the seconds seemed to evaporate until it was upon him. Before Greg knew it they were standing in a café in arrivals at Heathrow, looking at each other over nervously purchased coffee.

“Not as good as in first class,” Greg said, trying to make light of the situation. He wanted to toss his coffee, pick up both their bags and ask Mycroft which way to his car. The security men had been dispatched, escorting Camille into a cab. Greg hoped they would take their time.

“Few things are,” Mycroft replied. He made a face at his own drink. “Certainly not from an airport.”

Greg managed a brief smile, but it slid quickly from his face. He hoped his dismay was not evident. He hoped Mycroft could not see it. He hoped Mycroft _could_ see it. He couldn’t decide.

It didn’t matter what he wanted. Mycroft was who he was, and no matter what Greg might have imagined between them on the plane, there was no point pushing it. He could see from Mycroft’s shuttered eyes and straight spine he wasn’t interested in continuing their charade.

Greg’s heart broke a little. He studied Mycroft’s face as closely as he dared, trying to lock away the memories as tightly as he could. Finally, there was no escaping it.

“Well, I’d better find a cab,” Greg said, discarding the last of his coffee. “I don’t know how to thank you, really.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. His eyes, previously skittering around the café, finally settled on Greg. Neither spoke. Greg tried to read him but it was impossible. He couldn’t tell what was going on with Mycroft now. His Mycroft was gone, replaced by the government employee, cool and aloof.

The cracks in his heart widened at the loss.

_Keep it together a little longer._

“Goodbye,” Greg said quietly. He hesitated, then turned and walked away, pushing back the tears that threatened.

_Stupid._

+++

It wasn’t until the cab pulled up at his flat Greg realised he’d left his bag in the café. He had money to pay the cabbie, but no keys or phone; as far as he could tell he was stuck, unless he wanted to go into work to grab his spares. As he dithered, the heavy grey clouds through which they’d descended only hours ago opened, fat drops hitting his shoulders, his head. Before he could make a decision, a black town car pulled up, the rear door opening almost before it stopped. A familiar figure stepped out, huge umbrella unfolding over Greg’s head.

“Thanks,” Greg said automatically. He looked at Mycroft, wondering if he was suddenly in the middle of a romcom ending. Surely Mycroft wasn’t here to make a sweeping romantic gesture?

“You left your bag at the airport,” Mycroft told him, indicating the car.

“Oh great,” Greg said, relieved. That was a whole separate nightmare, trying to track lost luggage down. They retrieved the bag, Mycroft keeping his umbrella over Greg at the expense of his own coat.

When they stood face to face again, Mycroft holding the umbrella, Greg his bag, it was the café all over again. Greg searched Mycroft’s eyes, his task more difficult for the lack of fluorescent lighting. He imagined he could see a level of apprehension that had not been present earlier.

“I was not expecting to see you on the flight,” Mycroft said suddenly, “but I did enjoy your company.”

_What does that mean?_

“It wasn’t as boring as I thought it might be,” Greg said. He caught Mycroft suppressing the same grin he was and they shared the amusement between them, a brief moment of the easy warmth from the plane.

“You were amazing,” Greg told him. _Now or never, Lestrade._ “Not just with Camille. With me. Thank you.”

“You are easy to be with, Greg,” Mycroft said.

Greg fancied he saw hope there, and fear, and longing.

_Fuck it. Regret what you don’t do._

Moving slowly, allowing time for refusal, Greg raised his hand to Mycroft’s face, feeling the shape of his jaw settled in the palm of his hand. “You too,” Greg said. “In fact, I’d kind of like to…keep doing it.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, scepticism in his eyes. “Keep fooling people?”

“No,” Greg replied, “no acting required.”

“What,” Mycroft asked, his voice suddenly thick, “what makes you think I have been acting, Greg?”

Greg’s mind stuttered to a halt. He stared speechlessly at Mycroft until the other man continued. “I have found myself drawn to you for a long time. Little of our charade was falsified.”

Greg translated in his head. _I’ve fancied you for a while. I really do want to be with you like that._

His breath caught as he realised what Mycroft was saying. “You’d want….really?”

“Was that not what you expected?” Mycroft replied.

“Well, no,” Greg said honestly. “Kind of expected the brush off.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why would you express your desire if you expected to be turned down?”

“Easier than not knowing,” Greg said. He shrugged, trying for nonchalance and probably failing. “I hate not knowing.”

“Consider this particular limbo concluded,” Mycroft whispered, leaning down to brush his lips across Greg’s. For all their closeness on the plane, it felt like a first kiss.

“I believe you said you were ‘rubbish at making the first move’?” Mycroft murmured, the words brushing over Greg’s skin.

“I always have been,” Greg agreed. “Never knew what I’d be missing out on, though. This time I did.”

And he pulled Mycroft down into a Hollywood block-buster worthy snog, right there in the middle of the street.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, the story doesn't end with Greg's Hollywood kiss...

Greg smiled at Sally as he walked towards his office. He’d been tempted to take a day in lieu after his flight landed, but Mycroft was heading off to work, and there was no way he’d be able to sleep after the most eventful flight of his life. Might as well get into the office, deal with some of the paperwork the extradition would generate, not to mention the domestic stuff that would have piled up in his absence.

He was shrugging off his old coat when Sally stuck her head into his office.

“I’m guessing you actually managed some sleep,” Sally said, openly looking him up and down. “Is that a new blazer?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, a little self-conscious at the attention. “Got myself upgraded to first class. Slept on an actual flat bed, can you believe it?”

“First class?” Sally repeated, eyebrows raised in appreciation. “Nice, boss.”

“Yep,” Greg said, the grin still firmly in place. “Take advantage of the good mood, it probably won’t last.”

“Well, we’d better review the stuff you missed,” Sally said. “I’ll grab us a couple of coffees and we’ll get started.”

Greg sighed theatrically. “It won’t be as good as first class,” he explained when she looked at him quizzically.

“Sod off,” she told him good naturedly.

+++

The morning passed quickly enough, Greg’s good mood buoying him though the paperwork he knew would be waiting. Sally had done a good job keeping things going – he’d have to remember to suggest she go for the Inspector’s exam next time it came around. The idea of a mentoring a rookie DS made him wince, but she was ready.

His mind side-tracked, Greg didn’t notice his boss standing in the doorway until a throat was cleared pointedly in his direction.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, jumping to his feet. “Just getting my head around the developments in this Thompson case.”

“Right, well,” DCI Zellich said, “I need to see you right now.”

Greg nodded, wondering what could be important enough to get his boss out of the office to summon him personally. Usually he sent whomever was walking past at the time. He shrugged it off, still in too good a mood to let it worry him. He’d find out soon enough.

At the door of his boss’ office, though, the prickle of uncertainty was too much for him to ignore.

“Vance,” he said, nodding to the DI sitting in on his side of the desk. He glanced at the frown on DCI Zellich’s face and the sympathetic look on Vance’s face. Greg knew two things about Vance: he favoured the easy road, and he was a Union Rep.

Neither of those boded well for this meeting.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Greg asked. A ripple of worry skittered down his spine.

“Close the door, Lestrade,” his boss said abruptly.

Greg did so, taking a second to breathe deeply before turning back and sitting in the available chair.

“Right, I’m not going to beat around the bush here,” Zellich said, raising his eyes to Greg’s. “There’s been a misconduct complaint against you. Excessive force and brutality. They’re also alleging assault and battery.”

Greg blinked. Of all the things he’d been expecting, this was not even a possibility. He hadn’t even been back out since he’d returned – home to drop his stuff, then here… “By who?”

“A…” Zellich looked down, “Miss Camille Monroe.”

Greg tensed at the sound of her name, before relaxing just a little. It was probably a weird thing to do, he thought absently, but of all the things his boss could say to ease his mind, his ex-wife’s name was definitely top of the list. He knew exactly what she was doing – and exactly how much of it was complete bullshit. His heart _was_ beating faster – the department took allegations seriously – but Greg knew that he could easily fight this. There was no way any of the charges would stick, but any associated mud wouldn’t be great for his career.

“Right,” Greg said, game face firmly in place. He knew the drill when it came to this kind of stuff. He glanced over at Vance, but addressed his boss. “We can do interviews now if you want.”

Zellich nodded, looking suspiciously at Greg’s calm demenour. “You don’t want to consult your Rep, or a lawyer?”

Greg felt a twinge of gratitude. For his gruff exterior, Zellich did things by the book. Greg would prefer it if he’d realised there was something off about this whole circus and wanted to make sure Greg was protecting himself, but either way was okay. Even if he just wanted to be sure everything was done right so Greg couldn’t get off on a technicality.

“Sure,” Greg said. “I’ll talk to Vance, but I don’t need a lawyer. I know the drill. Interviews this morning, suspended with pay until it’s resolved.”

Zellich blinked at him. “You know what this is about, Lestrade?” Greg nodded. “Feel like sharing?”

Greg shrugged. “It’ll come out in the interview. Suffice it to say I have more than enough witnesses and evidence to put this to bed by the end of tomorrow.” He glanced at his watch. “If we can do the interview soon, I’ll get my stuff together and be back first thing tomorrow. You can review it – if it fits your schedule, sir – and interview Miss. Monroe late tomorrow. I’m pretty sure she’ll drop the allegations.”

“Yeah, okay,” Zellich said, obviously giving up on trying to guide Greg through whatever this was. He stood up. “Ten minutes be enough?” he asked Vance.

“Ask Greg, he seems to know what’s going on better than me,” Vance said.

“Yeah, meet you there,” Greg told his boss.

As soon as he’d left, Vance turned to Greg. “What the hell’s going on?”

Greg outlined the history between he and Camille and the events on the plane. “So I’ve got a bunch of witnesses and video of the whole thing. She went for Mycroft, I defended him, then private security staff dealt with her. She’ll have been escorted out by his security staff. I assume they’re taking care of the other charges, actually.”

Vance blinked. “You were married to her.”

“Yes,” Greg said, wondering if Vance had missed the main points of what he had been trying to say.

“But now…you’re seeing this Mycroft bloke? Mycroft is a man’s name, right?”

It was Greg’s turn to blink. He barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes.” He waited as Vance processed this before adding, “Is that relevant?”

“No,” the other man said, a shade too forcefully and quickly to be entirely convincing.

“Good,” Greg said, a flutter of unease making its way through him. It would be just his luck if, after all the potential damage an allegation of assault could do, it was his sexuality that caused issues. “Well, I’m going to go and meet Zellich. Unless you have any advice for me?”

“Nope,” Vance said immediately, standing up and practically bolting from the room.

“Fuck,” Greg muttered to himself. As willing as he was to go without a lawyer, he wasn’t a complete idiot. Having a Union Rep there was the bare minimum to keep himself from that ‘complete idiot’ label. He needed to find someone else. Someone that would sit in the same room as him without acting as though he had a communicable disease.

He racked his brains for a second before remembering Melinda, a DS in Fraud. She’d seemed pretty laid back; he remembered her rolling her eyes at one of Anderson’s ‘Sherlock must be good in bed to keep John around’ comments once. Crossing his fingers, Greg strode over there, relieved to find her at her desk, her DI marked ‘off site’ on the department board.

“Need a favour,” he said, too nervous now to grin at her.

“Greg?” she asked.

“Seriously. Right now. Union issue,” he said, and they were the magic words.

She stood up immediately, grabbed a pen and paper and looked at him. “Give me the five second version while we talk,” she said. “I get the impression we’re on our way to a not so good interview.”

“We are,” Greg said grimly, his earlier good mood gone. He’d been foolish to have such a cavalier reaction to this. Even if the allegations were quickly proven false, these things had a tendency to linger, to label people as difficult, unpredictable, hard work…not to mention the now inevitable gossip about his personal life.

He could only hope things smoothed over and he could talk to Mycroft before anything went too badly wrong.

+++

The interview was pretty much as Greg had expected. Melinda was a godsend, nothing like Vance; she didn’t bat an eyelid at the news about Mycroft. A few words of advice – “Be honest, serious, calm, factual. You know this, Lestrade,” – and they were in. The use of his surname grounded him, reminded him this was a professional issue, and he needed to conduct himself thus.

Zellich was straightforward, as Greg knew he would be. Nothing biased, though he raised his eyebrows at Mycroft’s name. Asked for facts, the evidence Greg felt might exonerate him, the usual. Greg glossed over the scheme to fool his ex-wife, instead intimating that he and Mycroft had been seeing each other discretely for a short time. There was no point putting that out there – it was just grist for the gossip mills. Melinda’s advice pounded through Greg’s head and he followed it to the letter when it came to the events on the plane, pretending he was making a statement about an incident on a scene – which he kind of was, really.

It was over before it had begun, almost; Greg had no idea how long it had been.

“Good job,” Melinda told him when Zellich had left. They stood and made their way to Greg’s office so he could collect his things. His leave with pay was effective immediately. It was weird to be leaving again so soon.

“What’s going on?” Sally asked, her face serious as she saw Melinda and Greg. Union Reps randomly in your office were rarely a good thing.

Greg filled her in as quickly as he could. “Sorry to dump you with this, but I should be able to get it sorted in a day or two.”

Sally snorted. She knew all about Camille, having witnessed the carnage of Greg’s separation and divorce. “She’s even dumber than I pegged her for, making such stupid allegations. Not a problem. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thanks, Sal,” Greg replied, the emotion taking him by surprise. Another person who couldn’t care less about who Greg was dating. Each one was a relief, he realised. Guilt flowed through him as he realised he’d automatically assumed the worst of everyone until they proved otherwise.

“Christ,” Greg muttered, wiping one hand over his face.

“Greg?”

He’d forgotten Melinda was still there. “Shit, sorry,” he said to her.

“I’ll walk you out,” she said, and they made their way to the carpark – and usual smoking corner – without another word.

She didn’t light up, but turned to him. “Can I assume the gossip mills will be running about you and Mycroft?”

“Vance was the Rep before you,” Greg said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “He bolted as soon as he realised. So yeah, I’m guessing it’s the talk of the office.” He sighed. “Not exactly a secret, but hardly something I was advertising, either,” he added.

“Most people will either support it or ignore it,” she told him. “A few delightful gems will be like Vance. When I brought my girlfriend to the Christmas party last year, we got a few looks, but most people just,” she shrugged, “didn’t say anything out of the normal ‘where did you meet?’ and stuff.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, grateful for her attempt at empathy, even if it was a little off-target. “Just a bit faster than I thought, y’know?”

“Yep,” Melinda said. “But you can’t do anything about it. The gossip, I mean. If there’s any problems come and see me, you know all that shit’s not to be tolerated.”

“I know,” Greg said.

“Lestrade, I’m serious,” she said. “I’m talking one comment or snide little remark, you send them to me.”

He managed a smile. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “I’d better go, get my shit together. Zellich is expecting me back 9am tomorrow with my evidence.”

“Good luck,” she said, pulling out a card. “I’ll be here. Not due in til ten, but there’s enough paperwork kicking around to keep me occupied. Come get me if you want anything. Even just another body in there.”

“Thanks,” he said again. He blinked at the card as she walked back into the office. What had he done to deserve such kindness? Pushing back the wave of emotion he pulled out his mobile, intent on calling Mycroft.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly as Mycroft picked up.

“Greg,” Mycroft replied. “I was moments from calling you.”

“Really?” Greg said. “Why?”

“I wondered why you were standing on the smoking corner when you are not in fact smoking,” Mycroft admitted. “Your conversation appeared quite intense.”

“That’s a bit creepy, you know,” Greg told him, turning to look at the CCTV camera above his head. “Hoping for a lift, actually. And a favour.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “A car will collect you in a few moments. Is the favour of a personal or professional nature?”

“Professional,” Greg said. He sighed. “Camille’s made allegations after the scene on the plane. I’ve been stood down ‘til it’s resolved, and my boss expects me back in first thing tomorrow with a summary of evidence.”

There was a moment’s silence in which Greg wondered if he’d overstepped the boundaries of their fledgling relationship.

“The car will bring you directly to my office,” Mycroft said, and to Greg’s surprise there was tightly controlled anger behind the words. “I will immediately begin compiling the evidence.”

“Are you sure?” Greg blurted, unsettled by the anger. Was Mycroft angry at him? Should he not have called…

“I find myself…unhappy with Miss. Monroe’s course of action,” Mycroft said.

“Right,” Greg replied. “So, it’s okay that I called you, then?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said in surprise. “I did not mean to give you the impression I was unhappy with you.” He paused. “With regards to this whole affair…I am sorry, Greg.”

“Not your fault,” Greg sighed. “I was the one that poked the dragon, remember?”

“Still,” Mycroft allowed. “Had we held her indefinitely…”

“She would have done this when you released her, whenever that was. Only bigger, when she’d had time to think about it,” Greg said pointedly. “This is kind of stupid, really. So many witnesses and video – if she’d thought about it she could have come up with a much better plan.”

“True,” Mycroft allowed. “She did not seem to be thinking rationally.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He wanted to say more – tell Mycroft how much he appreciated the support, share his anxiety about the office gossip – but a black car drove up beside him. “Car’s here. I’ll see you soon.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, and they rang off.

+++

When Greg arrived at Mycroft’s office, he waited until the door was closed before looking Mycroft in the eye. As he’d predicted, the empathy and righteous anger there were his undoing. Shaking, Greg reached for Mycroft, grateful beyond words that he moved in too, pulling Greg in close.

“I am so sorry,” Mycroft murmured into Greg’s shoulder.

“Not your fault,” Greg said. “Fuck, this could be bad…”

“Not a chance,” Mycroft said smoothly. “If necessary I can have a QC representing you at any hearing. Anthea is personally collating a profile of Miss. Monroe. My staff are already contacting the staff and other passengers in first class, and their statements will be collated by the end of the day. CCTV from the airline is being collected and will be available, along with an edit of relevant sections for ease of viewing tomorrow. I myself have drafted a statement and will be available at any time for whatever is needed.” The tone of Mycroft’s voice had changed, growing brisker as he outlined the lengths to which he had already gone to build Greg’s defence.

He must have dropped everything, Greg realised, as soon as I told him. For me.

He pulled Mycroft in closer, overwhelmed by the immediate and total support. Mycroft hadn’t asked a single question when Greg requested the favour – simply sent a car to come and collect him and started making arrangements.

_A QC. Probably overkill, but a good backup plan._

The ridiculousness of the thought forced a burble of laughter out. Greg gripped Mycroft tighter until the other man gently disentangled himself. He still stood close, and Greg drew comfort from it.

“Greg?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re just…I didn’t expect, I mean…” Greg drew a shaky breath. “You’re being amazingly supportive. Thank you.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Yeah, well, unquestioning support wasn’t a key feature in my last relationship,” Greg told him, hoping a little humour would keep him from breaking down completely.

“I will endeavour to make you accustomed to it,” Mycroft told him. Affection and determination coloured his words.

“You know,” Greg said, his hands pressing on Mycroft’s lapels, “When my boss told me about…this, I didn’t think it was that much of a problem. I mean, so many witnesses, and the video…”

“But,” prompted Mycroft.

“But,” Greg took it up, a deep breath fortifying him, “the Union Rep bolted when he realised you’re a man.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied carefully. There was a pause as he collected his thoughts. “Might I assume your interest in men is not common knowledge?”

“I think it might be now,” Greg said wryly. “Vance is hardly known for his discretion.”

Mycroft’s expression was cautious. “And you consider this a problem?”

Greg sighed. “Not the knowing,” he tried to explain, “though I hadn’t exactly planned that, but it’s gossip, and it’s early, this us, if there is an us, and…” he trailed off, frustrated at his inability to explain himself.

“I understand,” Mycroft said finally. “It is the lack of control. If I might make an assumption, I would say it feels like an invasion of privacy also.”

“Yeah,” Greg gave a relieved sigh. “How’d you know?”

“Same,” Mycroft said with a slight smile. “While I am exclusively interested in men, I have never made a partner publically known.” He paused, finding the words. “Without meaning to disparage any future we may or may not have, I might not have chosen to reveal our connection so early.”

“Exactly,” Greg said. The knot of anxiety in his chest had eased considerably as Mycroft voiced the same concerns as Greg harboured. Their similarity gave him courage. “I’ve been pretty interested in you for a while,” he added. “Not to put pressure on anything,” a thumping in his chest suddenly made him second guess the wisdom of what he was saying, “but, um, I’m not considering this as, well, a casual thing.”

Gentle hands took hold of his face, and Greg found himself looking into Mycroft’s eyes, soft and grey. “Nor I, Greg,” he whispered. “I have…desired this since...for a while,” and Greg heard his own words back at him, the phrasing awkward in Mycroft’s mouth.

 _He couldn’t find the words_ , Greg realised. _He used mine._ Greg wondered if his understatement – and it had been a huge understatement – was the same for Mycroft. Looking at the affection in the grey eyes, it seemed like a very real possibility. Greg’s heart turned over. Could he be in this with an equally invested Mycroft? The idea was almost cruel in its allure. _Imagine if we found each other. After so long. So many wasted moments._

“I-” Greg started, but a discrete knock on Mycroft’s door interrupted him. Automatically he stepped back, Mycroft’s hands falling from his face as they both turned toward the door.

“Enter,” Mycroft called, and Anthea entered, crossing the room to them.

“Detective Inspector,” she greeted him.

“Hi, Anthea,” he replied.

Her attention had only been his briefly; she turned to Mycroft, speaking quickly but clearly. “Might I speak to you regarding your recent instructions?”

Greg felt himself withdraw in embarrassment, which was ridiculous; he could not possibly be Mycroft’s only project. It was flattering enough that he had cleared a few moments immediately, but Greg should go, give him space to run the country. “I’ll just…” he murmured, shifting his weight to step towards the door.

“No,” Mycroft’s voice was low and clear. His arm on Greg’s hand made it clear he was not speaking to Anthea.

“My instructions regarding this matter are specifically related to Greg,” Mycroft told her.

“Very well,” she said without changing expression.

“I trust this information will not leave the room without my explicit permission,” Mycroft added.

“Of course not,” Anthea said, and there was an edge of offence to her voice, but her expression did not change.

“Did you have an opinion on this matter?” Mycroft asked her.

She paused. “I do, actually,” she said, and Greg could feel the astonishment radiate from Mycroft at her answer.

“Please do share,” Mycroft said, in a voice that invited the exact opposite.

The ice in his voice made Greg shiver, but Anthea merely straightened her spine and said evenly, “I am pleased for you, sir.”

When she said nothing else, Mycroft asked, “And might I assume you’ve watched the security footage from the plane?”

“The footage is missing from the plane’s hard-drive,” Anthea said without preamble. “Our people are tracking the other passengers, but the flight attendant, Miss. Bazinet, is also missing.”

“Missing?” Mycroft and Greg exclaimed at the same time.

“She has not been seen since she clocked out, approximately two hours after the flight landed,” Anthea told him. “She was expected home directly, however her parents have neither seen nor heard from her.”

Greg’s heart was beginning to pound. This was not right. Something was off, and if he couldn’t get hold of the footage or Gabrielle, the flight attendant, his case would be significantly weaker. Not to mention the personal safety of the poor woman.

Vaguely, he heard Mycroft ask a question.

“Other security at the airport?”

Anthea’s face tightened. “We have tracked her from the staff lounge to the carpark. She can be seen talking to someone. He evidently either threatened her or bribed her, because she got into his car despite her own being in the carpark. No licence plate, no identifying features. The man is wearing a dark blazer, dark trousers, baseball cap. No identifying features.”

Mycroft’s face was like granite as he ground out, “Show me.”

Greg’s mind was blank. He didn’t need to be a detective to figure this out. Someone was tampering with evidence. Someone who wanted to disadvantage Greg.

Someone who wanted to ruin Greg.

There would be only one person he knew that could be so vindictive, even if she wasn’t already involved.

“Camille,” he whispered, blindly dropping to the sofa beside him.

His chest felt tight, too tight to breathe properly. Greg struggled to draw breath, his mind racing, pulse thundering in his ears. Something clutched his hand, and he clung to it, squeezing as his body fought itself, his mind overwhelmed by the situation that was slowly revealing itself.

_She’s going to destroy you._

“No, no, no, no,” Greg moaned, folding in on himself, knowing he was rocking, holding himself with one hand, the other outstretched, still gripping tight. His heart was leaping out of his chest, pounding, surely cracking ribs as it beat frantically.

_There’s nothing you can do._

His hopelessness swirled through his head, roaring past every attempt at denial and rationality. Greg’s eyes squeezed closed, feeling his head grow light as his shallow breathing failed to keep up with his heart.

_He was dying, was this dying?_

Something on his back, not heavy but solid, rubbing slow circles. Wide slow circles, pressing against his skin, too firm to deny as a hallucination.

_Hold on to that._

It was slow now, impossibly slow; Greg felt the pace sink into his bones, and he instinctively tried to match it, to pull his muscles along, breathing raggedly, but slower, the bands around his chest easing, allowing more air into his lungs, slowing his heart as the roar of words in his head abated.

As the world returned incrementally, Greg tried to find small facts to ground himself.

He was in Mycroft’s office.

On Mycroft’s sofa.

It was Mycroft’s hand on his back, soothing him.

Drawing as deep a breath as he could, Greg sat up, suddenly desperate to explain what he’d realised. Mycroft could help. Mycroft would help.

“It must be,” he said urgently, sitting up a little, feeling the irrational urge to cry. “No-one else…it must be her. You saw her on the flight.”

Mycroft, hand still rubbing large circles on Greg’s back, spoke quietly. “She would have been granted a phone call on arriving at the airport. Who would she call that could get there quickly?”

Greg struggled to breathe deeply, drawing enough oxygen to think. “I don’t know,” he said, almost sobbing. “I don’t know her anymore.”

“Tell me about her family,” Mycroft asked, his tone still soothing.

Greg struggled to rally his brain. _Camille’s family._

“Brother in London, half-sisters in Paris. Parents gone. Two cousins she’s close to in Bath.” A laugh burbled up, almost a sob. “But that was two years ago, they could be anywhere, and her friends, I don’t know...”

“Breathe,” Mycroft murmured as Greg’s control threatened to crack.

Eyes closed again, concentrating on the regular movement on his back, the firm pressure demanding to be acknowledged. Greg felt Mycroft turn away, heard him mutter something; a second later the door opened and closed.

_Anthea. Gone to find the family._

His breathing eased, finally. Mycroft was helping. Anthea was helping. He did not have to deal with Camille alone.

“Rest here with me,” Mycroft murmured, pulling Greg’s head into his lap. “Anthea will knock when she has information for us.”

The offer was too good to turn away, and Greg allowed himself to drift, the smell and feel of Mycroft so close enough of a comfort for his mind to rest, at least for a short while.

“Greg,” Mycroft’s voice came at last.

Greg groaned and sat up; he rubbed at his eyes, blinking hard. Had he slept?

Mycroft nodded at the coffee table, where a plate of sandwiches and pot of tea was laid out. “Eat something. Please,” he said.

Greg nodded, hoping he didn’t look too much like the mess he felt. He had no idea what time it was, or even if it was the same day; he imagined it could be pushing midnight and things around here would be more or less the same. Suppressing a yawn, he reached for a sandwich, chewing as he poured himself a cuppa.

Another knock at the door, and Mycroft called Anthea in.

“We’ve traced the passengers,” she told them, addressing both men. “Statements from all are being collated. Most are vague at best; those in the closest seats confirm that Miss. Monroe acted first and Greg only moved in defence of you, sir.”

Greg nodded, mouth full, slightly encouraged. Multiple eye witnesses were good, but he needed the security footage. The absence of Gabrielle was worrying too, both from an evidence perspective and his concern for her safety.

“And the family?” Mycroft asked.

“Half-sisters a confirmed presence in Paris, cousins both deceased. Brother is off the grid since his release from Pentonville six months ago.”

“Off the grid?” Mycroft repeated.

Anthea nodded uncomfortably. “No bank accounts, benefits records, utilities in his name. He’s not on our radar. We’re looking at CCTV but it will take time.”

Greg could see a muscle in the side of Mycroft’s jaw working as he considered this new information. Finally he nodded, handing Anthea Greg’s empty plate. “Keep me up to date. Give this the highest priority we can without requiring further authorisation.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, retreating.

Mycroft turned back to Greg, eyes probing gently, seeming to ask, _are you okay?_

Greg shrugged, unprepared for such open concern for him. Even with all Mycroft had done for Greg that day, seeing him sitting close, his grey eyes anxious, felt like a dream. Like someone else’s life, perhaps.

Without saying a word Mycroft shifted, leaning against the back of the sofa, drawing Greg down to rest against him.

The arms around him were gentle again. They cradled him carefully, as though he was fragile. It was the same way he’d been held on the plane, as Mycroft had whispered reassurances, lulling him into calm, gently dismantling his anxiety.

“She will not win this,” Mycroft spoke quietly, and once again Greg closed his eyes and allowed the tears to pool silently in his eyes. “She will not beat us in this. It doesn’t matter who she has on her side, what evidence she destroys. I will stake my very reputation on your innocence, Greg, to the highest powers if necessary. I will defend you to my last breath.”

Greg’s tears, like those on the plane, flowed steadily as Mycroft declared his devotion.

_He said ‘us’. He thinks of us. Together._

“I will declare your chivalry to the rooftops, if you require it.” He kissed Greg’s forehead, then added, “And if you wish, we can retreat to my home, using all the tools at my disposal to shield ourselves from the world.”

Greg’s heart heaved as he heard the emotion behind Mycroft’s words. More than professional obligation, or even the flush of newly discovered romance. His earlier curiosity about Mycroft’s true connection to him came back to the fore. This declaration was passionate, was drawn from a well deeper than a superficial interest would afford. Perhaps Mycroft really did desire him, and not just in the physical sense. Greg listened with bated breath, hoping Mycroft might expand his thoughts.

Mycroft’s voice became strained as he said haltingly, “I fear I might have misrepresented the depth and longevity of my regard for you. Your happiness is paramount to me, Greg, I am…” He swallowed. “I am honoured you would consider me as a partner.”

“Not considering anything,” Greg said, his voice thick with emotion and muffled against Mycroft’s chest. He sighed. There was no point trying to hide it, or wonder. This was as close as Mycroft would get, and it was delicately phrased perfection. “I’ve loved you for ages, too.”

Mycroft stiffened beneath him. “I beg your pardon?”

Greg sat up, feeling the kind of tired you only got after an emotionally draining day. “Translating what you said, I figured you mean, you love me. Well, I love you too. Have done for ages.”

Mycroft gaped at him, eyes terribly vulnerable as he scoured Greg’s eyes.

Greg kept still, a little panic setting in – _fuck, have I got this wrong? Why did I say that?_ – but holding Mycroft’s eyes, wanting him to see the sincerity there.

_I love you._

Finally Mycroft’s mouth closed, lips pressed together tight – but not tight enough to hide the tremor. With a deep breath through his nose, Mycroft nodded, a tight, tiny motion. The smallest nod he could do, as though needing to have plausible deniability. As though he might have dreamt Greg’s words, spoken right here to his face.

It was enough for Greg. His heart stuttered as he felt the smile break over his face, the tears track down his cheeks as he watched the astonishment and pleasure bloom in Mycroft. Somehow this felt more real than all the times with Camille, all the times he thought ‘I love you’ was enough to compensate for ‘I cheated’, ‘I don’t believe you’, or any number of nasty, thoughtless words.

I love you meant I support you.

It meant I believe you.

It meant I trust you.

“I love you,” Greg whispered. The words seemed to hang in the air.

“I too,” Mycroft said, and Greg could see the emotion as he stopped, shaking his head. _Too much. It’s too much for him._

“Kiss me?” Greg said, and their lips met. It was messy and imprecise; Mycroft was shaking, Greg was still crying, neither was completely able to get themselves sorted to kiss properly.

“I thought you were rubbish at making the first move,” Mycroft said shakily.

“That wasn’t the first move,” Greg said. “You made the first move on the plane.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows but said nothing, instead finding a box of tissues under the coffee table and offering them to Greg.

Having cleaned up his face, Greg smiled, lowering his head again to Mycroft’s chest. This was becoming their default position, not that he was complaining; there was a lot to be said for resting against someone who loved you. They sat there for a few moments, Mycroft’s breathing deep and soporific. Greg felt his eyelids close of their own accord; he was tired from the travel, tired from fighting again with Camille, and now tired from the emotional toll of this day.

 _Good thing I don’t have to do it again._ Camille would be gone once they’d finished with all this. Then he and Mycroft could get on with things. Decide where they wanted to live. Live quietly, falling asleep on their sofa together.

Supporting each other.

It would be nothing like his marriage. He had Mycroft now.

As the idea comforted him, the analytical part of Greg’s mind asked him a question.

_Who does Camille have now?_

The question floated for a while, and Greg’s conscious mind ignored it; the answer didn’t come to him right away and really he didn’t care.

But something in his mind was stirred, some fact that started a picture forming, made up of what he knew about Camille, her personality, the way she operated, and the facts of this case.

 “What about Andre?” Greg asked suddenly. The words were out before he even knew he was going to say them. His eyes opened and he looked into middle distance, considering his own question. Mycroft’s breathing had stuttered, and Greg sat up to see him thinking, his eyes thoughtful.

“What do you know about him?” Mycroft asked carefully.

“Nothing,” Greg replied. “But he was there, on the plane. He saw her get taken away, and if he knows her at all he could probably guess she’d want evidence of it gone.” As he voiced the ideas in his head, he felt the adrenalin slowly start to build, wiping out his fatigue.

“Had she previously been inclined to press questionable charges?” Mycroft asked.

“Twice that I know of,” Greg replied, “both when she alleged someone assaulted her in public after she’d been screaming about something.”

The idea was coalescing in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became.

“He’s part of this.” Greg stood up, the extra energy in his body pushing him. He needed to pace, to move as he talked through the facts, tried to make sense of it.

“Okay, say she’s got something on him. Shady business deal, dodgy tax offset, cheated at bowling once. And if he knows her at all, he’ll know she’d use it against him unless he helps her. So being the upstanding citizen that he is, Andre decides to be proactive. He doesn’t know what she’s going to do exactly, but he does know that if the footage is missing, it’s better for her, for whatever story she’s going to go with.

“When she gets escorted off the plane, I’ll be your guys handed her off to local police to be charged, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Most likely. We don’t intervene in civilian matters, generally speaking.”

“Okay, so she’s going to get a phone call, one at the airport you said, and probably another one at the station. A lot of sergeants give the prisoner their phone call first up, especially if things are busy. So Camille calls Andre, he tells her he’s dealing with the footage, tell her he’ll arrange bail – which is why she’s out so fast – and she tells him to get Gabrielle out of the way. He hangs around the carpark until Gabrielle shows up, says something to make her get into his car, and takes her somewhere. She may not even realise anyone is looking for her yet.”

“And this hinges on her holding blackmail material over him,” Mycroft muses.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “The blackmail would be new, but I could definitely see her using accidentally discovered facts to her advantage.” Camille had been incredibly opportunistic, and Greg would bet that particular trait had not waned – he saw it in her behaviour on the plane. Turning a situation to her advantage was like second nature.

“Very well,” Mycroft said. He dropped a kiss on Greg’s temple before standing, straightening his tie and walking out of his office, presumably to talk to Anthea.

Greg sat back, sighing. This had been a hell of a day. The flight, Mycroft bringing his bag back, accidentally being outed at work in the process of defending his professional honour, realising it was more serious than he’d thought (cue anxiety attack), telling Mycroft he was loved and seeing it in return.

He wouldn’t swap a second. Every bit of it was worth it for that one last fact.

_He loves me._

The silly grin was still on his face when Mycroft walked in.

“All sorted?” he asked, ignoring the raised eyebrow.

“We are reviewing footage of Andre and will find him for questioning today,” Mycroft said with such certainty Greg was impressed.

“Good,” he said. Looking at his watch, he winced. “Do you think…how long do you think it will take? When I first heard about this I figured it would be straightforward, told my boss we could meet first thing tomorrow to review the evidence.”

“I will ensure the meeting is temporarily postponed if necessary,” Mycroft replied. “We have a lot of time until then, however, and I would prefer to deal with this as swiftly as possible. Your boss will see us immediately we are ready.”

“Okay then,” Greg said, a little taken aback at how readily Mycroft dismissed the man Greg called boss – and probably his boss, too.

“So what now, then?” Greg asked.

“You should get some sleep,” Mycroft told him. “My driver will take you to my flat, and I will join you presently.”

“Your flat? Hang on, presently?” Greg asked.

“The security on my flat exceeds that of most of London. You will be safe there. I will give Anthea further instructions before joining you.”

“I’ll just wait for you,” Greg said.

“Some of the matters are not related to us,” Mycroft explained uncomfortably. “I apologise but they require an exceptionally high security clearance.”

“Which I do not have,” Greg finished for him. “Okay, I’ll wait out there.” He pointed to Anthea’s office. When Mycroft opened his mouth to speak again, Greg stepped in close. “Look, I’m not going to leave here without you. Your flat might be secure enough to house the Crown Jewels, but you are what makes me feel safe, alright?”

Stunned, Mycroft could not reply. Finally he swallowed and nodded his head.

Greg kissed him and turned for the door, closing it quietly behind him.

Anthea was at her desk. Her eyes rose to meet Greg’s, and held his gaze as he stopped next to her.

“Hey Anthea,” he said easily, “I’m hoping we can skip the ‘hurt him and I’ll kill you’ conversation. I’m pretty tired, and believe me, if anyone hurts Mycroft, I’ll be first in line to knife them.” She raised one eyebrow but did not comment. “Anyway, he wants to talk to you before we go. I don’t know if he calls the cars or you do but we’re going back to his flat when you’re done. I’ll just wait over there.”

Greg grinned at her and made his way over to one of the two waiting room chairs opposite her desk.

Anthea sighed, picked up her Blackberry and knocked before entering Mycroft’s office.

The outer office fell into silence, only Greg there to breathe in the old wood and leather polish. He couldn’t imagine working somewhere like this. Was this what Mycroft’s place would be like? All old paintings and moulded ceilings?

Greg closed his eyes, not really caring enough to wonder. He would find out soon enough.

+++

As it turned out Mycroft’s flat was as different from his office as it was possible to be. Sleek and modern, Greg almost wondered if anyone lived here at all.

 “Nice place,” he said as Mycroft took his coat, hanging it next to his own beside the front door.

“It is much improved for the company,” Mycroft murmured, stepping into Greg, shuffling him back against the wall.

Greg smiled, his arms sliding around Mycroft’s waist as the man buried his face in Greg’s neck. They stood like that, curled together for long moments as Greg’s heart beat steadily in his chest. He almost couldn’t believe it. Standing here, held by a man he loved who had already shown him more trust and unquestioning support than during his entire marriage.

“Time for bed, I think,” Mycroft murmured. “A few hours’ sleep and we can review Anthea’s progress over a meal.”

“Mmm,” Greg replied. He didn’t let go, Mycroft’s words trickling into his mind. As gentle hands disentangled him, Greg stood, blinking in the dimmed light.

“Come,” Mycroft said, taking Greg’s hand, leading him to a door which opened into the master bedroom.

Greg stopped, the sight of a bed – large and comfortable -looking though it was – unsettling him. Why was that? He was tired, and his brain took its time sending him the reason.

Oh.

“Greg?” Mycroft asked from several steps ahead.

“Yeah.” Greg swallowed. “Mycroft, what…what she said on the plane, that wasn’t exactly…” he sighed, running one hand through his hair.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked, the words quiet and sincere.

Greg opened his mouth and it all came out, jumbled together. “She said, ‘relationships with women, one-night stands with men’,” he said. “That’s not…I mean…we got married when I was twenty. Had a few girlfriends before that, but only one that…I slept with. Kissed a few boys at clubs and stuff. I probably made myself sound better when I met Camille. More impressive, more experienced. God…she was the experienced one, sleeping around…I’m trying to say, I’ve never actually slept with another man. Typical Camille, twisting my words…not that they were probably all that true…trying to impress a pretty girl, that was me…” Greg trailed off miserably, hoping Mycroft could piece together enough to make sense of what he’d just said.

“Greg,” Mycroft said quietly, stepping back close. He looked as though he was going to say something important, but he stopped and smiled instead. “You should sleep a few hours. We can talk when you wake if you like. I have no expectations of you, now or ever.”

Greg blinked, his mind fuzzy with exhaustion. “Okay,” he said. It seemed like a simple enough idea: sleep now. Talk later. He slipped off his shoes and socks and blazer, handing the latter to Mycroft to hang before trudging over to the bed. He pulled back the sheets automatically and slid in, the cool fabric heaven against his warm toes.

“Sleep well,” Mycroft said quietly, kissing Greg’s temple.

“Stay with me?” Greg asked, already slipping towards sleep. “Please.”

“Very well,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg could hear him moving around, before the mattress dipped on the other side of the bed and the sheets stirred, letting a rush of air under. When the bed was still again, Mycroft might have been a thousand miles away. With a grunt of effort and displeasure Greg rolled over, rooting around until he had buried under Mycroft’s arm, head on his chest, one arm across his stomach.

“Thank you,” Greg whispered before sleep finally pulled him under.

+++

It was the smell of bacon that woke Greg. He groaned, stretching to find an empty bed (normal), rumpled sheets on the far side (not normal) and himself fully dressed (depressingly normal, though he was usually passed out on the couch). He blinked, brain taking a second to inform him he was in Mycroft’s bed. And someone was cooking bacon.

Greg pressed a disbelieving smile into the pillow, breathing deeply, chasing the scent of Mycroft. It was annoyingly elusive, so he went in search of the source instead.

“Hello,” Greg ventured when he found the kitchen. He’d found the bathroom first, which was fortunate – he’d used the toilet, splashed water on his face, lamented the state of his hair. Now, he could see a brand new looking kitchen, with a pinafore’d Mycroft Holmes standing at the hob, cooking… “Bacon and eggs?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “I was not sure of your preferences, but I assume this is acceptable?”

“You assume right,” Greg told him. He yawned and stretched. “I feel much better after that, thanks. How long was I asleep?”

“Four hours,” Mycroft replied. “I have just conferred with Anthea regarding the progress of the case. Would you like to eat first, or discuss her report?”

“Can we do both?” Greg asked. “It’ll mainly be you talking, I assume.”

“You assume correctly,” Mycroft said, smiling as Greg recognised the paraphrase. He served Greg perfectly fried eggs and bacon with toast before pouring him coffee.

“Christ, you’ll make someone a good husband,” Greg said without thinking. He winced at the crude comment then turned his attention to the breakfast.

Mycroft gave him a slight smile as he returned the cafetiere to the far bench. “In terms of the evidence available, our staff have collated the statements from the other passengers. All those who witnessed the argument confirm your actions as defensive. With a good lawyer, you should not be concerned about the excessive force or brutality claims.”

Greg swallowed the eggs he had been chewing. Having the words said in connection to him was still shocking. Much as he might have liked to set Camille straight once or twice, he’d never laid a hand on her, or anyone else outside his job. His non-brutal, reasonable-force contact with the general public was a point of pride for him, and this would rankle for a long time.

“To provide a strong defence against the assault and battery allegations,” Mycroft continued, “It is imperative that we obtain both the airline footage and Gabrielle. This will ensure her safety too, of course.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “The assault is bullshit, I didn’t threaten her safety or anything. I know, I mean I shouldn’t have hit her. That’s battery, nothing I can do about that. It happened.” He felt sick to his stomach, the half-eaten food suddenly making him queasy.

“It was self-defence,” Mycroft said firmly. “And the evidence will bear that out.”

“If we can find it,” Greg replied, the pessimist in him coming out unbidden.

“ _When_ we find it,” Mycroft retorted. “As I was saying,” he went on before Greg could continue to argue, “Anthea has also compiled an exhaustive profile of…Miss. Monroe.” He shot Greg an uneasy look.

“Go on, I’m sure it’s bloody awful,” Greg said, sipping at his coffee. The brew was amazing, but he wasn’t sure it was a good idea right now, between his own self-recriminations over the battery and what he might be about to hear of Camille.

“Miss. Monroe has an inconsistent approach to the law,” Mycroft began. “She has several charges stretching back to her teenage years – misdemeanour theft, refusing arrest, official warnings for attempts to buy alcohol and cigarettes while underage. As an adult, she was involved in a number of incidents in which she pressed or attempted to press charges.”

“Yeah, the two I was telling you about,” Greg said.

“According to records there were five such events during your marriage,” Mycroft corrected quietly. “Three were dropped on the advice of defence counsel. The two I believe you know about went to court, where two different defendants were found to have acted in self-defence after being attacked by Miss. Monroe.”

“Christ,” Greg said without surprise at the secrets she’d held from him. He thought about the court cases. “That sounds about right.” His mouth curled in a mirthless grin. “She was furious.”

“As for Andre,” Mycroft went on, “Andre Koustas, born Andrew Kingston, 68, a self-made yacht building success story based in Greece. She’s been seeing him for seven months, however reports state he generally severs contact with his women within six months of their initial contact. I noted on the flight he no longer appeared happy in the relationship.”

“Maybe she’s got something on him,” Greg said. “It would explain a whole lot of this.”

“It would,” Mycroft replied. “Perhaps she is aware of the people smuggling operation he runs between Libya and the Greek Islands. Or the illegal workers he imports using the same channels. Possibly it is the guns and drugs he carries north to Eastern Europe.”

“Fuck,” Greg breathed. “All that and he’s just walking around?”

“My people have been watching him for a period of time,” Mycroft said carefully. “He is useful in a number of matters, mainly passing misinformation and identifying others involved, however his time is coming. We believe he is unaware of our attentions.”

“And he didn’t recognise you?” Greg asked. “On the plane?”

“I so rarely take part in legwork,” Mycroft replied. “Indeed, I did not recognise him as his case is largely being overseen by a colleague of mine. His name was red flagged when Anthea began his profile.”

“Right,” Greg muttered. “So relevant to us is that he’s doing some bad stuff, and he’d probably be quite happy to indulge in a little recreational kidnapping to keep his blackmailer happy.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured.

“Right,” Greg said. “So if that’s the case, can we bring him in for questioning?” His heart was thumping now.

“My colleague was keen for our interests to align,” Mycroft said. “If we choose not to act in this particular matter, at least any further than necessary to secure a win in this case and with regards to Gabrielle’s safety, the outcome will be far greater.”

“You guys will arrest him for the big stuff later,” Greg translated. “Fuck. I fucking hate doing this. Trading off smaller fish for the bigger stuff.”

“I agree, it is far from ideal,” Mycroft said. “However I believe it will be a more satisfactory outcome to have Mr. Koustas in an unnamed jail for the rest of his days than to have him in a public jail for a short period of time, only to disappear when he is released.”

“You’re right,” Greg sighed. He looked down again at his plate, then at his coffee. Nope, his stomach still wasn’t interested.

“Okay, so how do we approach him?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Anthea has turned her attention to finding Gabrielle and the footage.

“As it turns out, the footage is recorded off-site as well as on the plane’s hard-drive. Whomever was bribed or threatened to destroy the copy on the plane may or may not have known this, but either way, it is simply a matter of having it found and the relevant sections being edited together to show your interactions with Miss. Monroe.”

“So the footage is available?” Greg said. A wave of relief flooded through him at Mycroft’s nod. “Bloody brilliant.” He took another bite of his breakfast, appetite coming back now that a key piece of evidence had shown up. “So, Gabrielle, then?”

“Gabrielle,” Mycroft confirmed. “My people are currently speaking to Mr. Koustas.”

“Speaking to him?” Greg repeated.

Mycroft tilted his head. “They simply wish him to know what they know about Miss. Monroe’s propensity for cheating on her partner. It appears that she and a Mr. Thomas Kingston, 42, have been photographed on multiple occasions entering a certain hotel together.”

“His son?” Greg barked a laugh. Christ, this was perfect. Her cheating was coming back to bite her.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “We have reason to believe Mr. Thomas Kingston is making preparations to take over the family business. He appears to anticipate his father’s imminent demise. It is feasible that Miss. Monroe is either encouraging him or assisting him in his endeavour.”

_Conspiracy to murder is an offence by virtue of section 1(1) of the Criminal Law Act 1977._

The words came automatically to Greg’s mind. He wanted to reply but had no idea what to say. Camille involved in all this felt like it should be outrageous, a dream. Instead he found himself believing it of her. She had never been interested in furthering anyone’s interests unless there was a benefit for herself. This was just an extension of that idea. One small step at a time, from petty theft to cheating to blackmail to conspiracy to commit murder. Not to mention all the shit Andre was into that she evidently knew about.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Anthea has contacted the people on the ground in Greece,” Mycroft murmured. “It appears Miss. Monroe’s brother is working there. Given his criminal history, it’s likely he’s aiding the illegal operations.”

“Off the grid,” Greg whispered.

“Smuggled out of Britain on a yacht, I would suggest,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg poked at the remains of his meal. How the hell had they gone from fooling his ex-wife on a plane to finding out she was mixed up in human trafficking? He just wanted to clear his name, to get on with things and hopefully see where he and Mycroft might go from here.

Before he could get too morose, Mycroft rounded the end of the bench to stand behind Greg. His hands landed on Greg’s shoulder, thumbs rubbing small circles on his shoulder blades. The contact was nice, a silent reminder of Mycroft’s empathy. As if Greg needed it.

The sound of Mycroft’s phone was abrasive in the stark kitchen. A gentle squeeze, and he let Greg’s shoulders go, answering the phone and listening intently.

For want of something to do, Greg took his dishes to the sink, scraping the last of his eggs into the bin, stacking the plate and cutlery as Mycroft ended his phone call.

“The interview with Mr. Koustas is complete,” Mycroft said, arms encircling Greg’s waist. “He was quite happy to cooperate, giving us the location of Gabrielle in return for our assurance he will not be charged, and a suggestion he look into Miss. Monroe’s actions.”

“And Gabrielle?” Greg asked. It was almost strange how familiar and comfortable it was already, having Mycroft so close. His arms were safety, comfort, empathy; it was surreal, to have gone from never knowing this to craving it in such a short time.

Mycroft’s face relaxed. “They have Gabrielle. She is unharmed.”

Greg slumped with relief, feeling Mycroft’s arms tighten automatically. What had started as a simple ruse on a plane had turned out to be skirting the edges of some very bad people, far beyond what he usually dealt with. Gabrielle was a lucky woman.

“She will be interviewed then returned home,” Mycroft murmured, pressing soft kisses to Greg’s neck. “She will be under protective surveillance until the Koustas matter is resolved. I am assured they are close to a resolution – a few months at worst, and they will act.”

“And the charges against me?” Greg asked. Mycroft’s mouth on his neck was distracting; he hoped he remembered the rest of this conversation later.

“You and I will meet with the Chief Superintendent tomorrow morning at 9am,” Mycroft replied easily. “Upon viewing the evidence, I am certain he will recommend that Miss. Monroe drop her case. And if she does not,” he went on, anticipating Greg’s next question, “My QC, you and I will certainly be up to the challenge of defending your honour in court almost immediately.”

Relief was tempered when Greg remembered his earlier experience with Vance... “Fuck.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft said, raising his head from Greg’s shoulder.

“I just…” Greg sighed. “Dealing with the shit at work. About us. Not going to be fun.”

“No, I imagine it will not.” Mycroft’s arms tightened around Greg.

 _I will be here with you._ Greg’s anxiety eased a little. He had Sally and Melinda at the very least. And Mycroft. Gloriously, against all bets he would have made, he had Mycroft.

Thinking, Greg tried to pull their conversation back to where it had been. Something about them defending his honour immediately?

“Rush me a court date, then?” Greg asked, pulling back to smile into Mycroft’s eyes.

“Not my first choice for our first date, but it seems appropriate,” Mycroft replied.

The joke made Greg groan and laugh.

“What about Camille?” he asked.

He felt Mycroft stiffen before him. “It will depend on the extent of her involvement with the Kingston Koustas family,” he said carefully. “If she is part of their plans or actions, there will be no choice…”

“Good,” Greg said. “Well, not good, but,” he took a deep breath. “She made her choice.”

“And I made mine,” Mycroft said softly, pressing his lips to Greg’s.

“Thank God you made the first move,” Greg whispered into the kiss. “I’m rubbish at that, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost wrote 'THE END', but let's be real, I might wake up one day soon with a burning desire to write their first time together... Hate to close that door forever, so I'll just leave things here for a while. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone.  
> This is kind of 'chapter 3a', but I wanted to publish it anyway, partly to say 'don't worry, I haven't forgotten!' and partly so you know I wasn't going to leave this without dealing with Camille.  
> You'll notice there's another instalment planned (I'm sure you can imagine what might happen in that one!), so never fear, I won't leave this at this point either.

Greg stood in the dark little room, blinking as he tried to focus on the other side of the one way glass. A gentle squeeze of the hand that had sneaked into his and he smiled.

_Are you okay?_

The silent code was not one they’d practiced, but it was clear enough. He squeezed in return.

_Fine. Thank you._

Before he could speak, the door to the interview room opened and Camille walked in, the air of injury pulled around her like a cloak.

Greg knew it well.

The man following her was the classic rich lawyer, the kind you’d employ to get you out of charges of which you were as guilty as sin, and pay through the nose for the privilege.

Greg knew his kind well, too.

But Greg was not present for this meeting. He’d been completely on board when his representative recommended he abstain; the last thing he wanted to do was sit in the same room and talk to Camille. _Mediate_ , if you preferred that term; Greg always thought the term _negotiation_ more apt. They only worked when everyone knew what the outcome would probably be, but nobody wanted to go to court.

He suspected Camille had formed an idea of what the outcome would be. Unfortunately for her, she was not in possession of all the facts. Greg was fairly sure they wouldn’t need Mycroft’s QC for this; they could hold onto that card in case this ended up in court. In the meantime, he’d taken Mycroft’s advice.

“Miss. Monroe,” Anthea greeted her coolly. “Do take a seat.”

Camille frowned, looking around, but did so, ignoring her lawyer. Andre’s lawyer more probably, Greg thought.

“Where’s Greg?” Camille asked, frowning at Anthea. She turned to look hard at the one way glass and Greg felt his breath catch as though she could see through it.

_Coward. Fucking coward, she’d scream at him, when he tried to text her instead of calling…_

Mycroft’s hand squeezed his, pulling him out of his memories.

 _Be strong. She cannot harm you. I will not allow it_.

Greg squeezed back, focussing again on what was happening in the interview room.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade has declined to attend this meeting,” Anthea said smoothly, “as is his legal right.” She straightened her papers, giving Camille the opening she so clearly wanted.

“Of course he did. Never could have an argument face to face, could Greg. And I suppose he’s fucking you too? Couldn’t make up his mind either, men or women.” She made a point of looking Anthea up and down as though assessing her worth. “At least he’s picked a looker this time. Don’t be fooled though, those puppy-dog eyes won’t keep you warm at night.”

Greg and Mycroft squeezed at the same time, a fact which would have been funny had they not both been trying to protect the other from Camille’s vicious words.

Anthea, for her part, simply sat and waited for Camille to finish. “As I have not yet had the opportunity to remind you, and as I am sure your counsel is aware, this meeting is being recorded in both audio and video for the protection of both parties.”

Greg watched as Anthea returned Camille’s loathing gaze, one eyebrow raised as though challenging her to speak again.

When she did not, Anthea broke the silence. Greg wondered idly if Camille had told her lawyer to keep his mouth shut.

“Let’s not waste any more time than necessary, shall we?”

Anthea pulled a sheaf of papers from the folder on her side of the desk. “Would you prefer to make your offer, or shall I begin?”

Camille sat back with a self-important smirk. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this. What will Greg offer me to drop these charges, I wonder?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is prepared to recommend the Crown drop all charges against you and your travelling companion, including but not limited to disturbing the peace, threats to kill and attempted assault. In return, you will leave the United Kingdom for a period of no less than five years. You will drop all charges and allegations against Detective Inspector Lestrade and all other persons present including the airline itself. You will adhere to a restraining order prohibiting you from contacting or inciting a third party to contact Detective Inspector Lestrade or any third party in any way for a period of five years or until Detective Inspector Lestrade feels inclined to rescind the order.”

As Anthea spoke, Camille’s expression changed, morphing slowly from smug to disbelief to outrage. She sat up, gripping the side of her plastic chair so hard Greg thought she might break a nail.

_Now that would piss her off._

“How dare you offer such…he hit me!” She indicated the side of her face, which was unfortunately so skilfully made up the mark was invisible. Greg was grateful the punch had been so sloppy. Would be harder to argue if he’d broken her cheekbone or something.

She kept talking, and he could see her working up to a really decent rant, but Anthea simply raised one hand. Camille, unused to a conversation in which the other person looked so supremely bored, petered out into silence.

“Sit. Down,” Anthea told her, steel in her voice.

Camille looked shocked, glancing at her lawyer but obeying.

“First, some information of which you should be aware,” Anthea told her. She slid relevant papers across the table as she spoke. “The security footage from the plane has been retrieved from the offsite recording site. None of your claims are substantiated by its contents. Miss Gabrielle Bazinet, first class air hostess, has been located and her statement recorded, including the fact that she was being held against her will by a man she identified as your travelling companion. None of your claims are substantiated by its contents. A number of other first class passengers have made statements. None of your claims are substantiated by their contents.”

Camille’s mouth was hanging open by this point, a pile of glossy photos and finely printed statements sitting before her.

“With your previous history of making questionable claims of assault,” Anthea went on, adding another piece of paper to the stack, “and the facts that both yourself and your companion were travelling on falsified documents, and that he now faces accusations of kidnapping, I would seriously consider accepting Detective Inspector Lestrade’s offer.”

The lawyer, until now silent and po-faced, now leaned forward and started speaking fast and low in Camille’s ear. She still looked murderous but she was listening – she was far too clever not to listen to her lawyer. Her gaze grew calculating, and when he had finished she sat back, eyes still on Anthea.

“What has Andre said?”

“Your travelling companion has agreed to the terms,” Anthea told Camille. “Here is a copy of his legally binding agreement.” One last piece of paper, one Camille actually read this time, eyes skimming over the words, narrow and distrustful. When she reached the end Greg saw the familiar sneer on her face once more.

“Fine,” Camille said. “I’ll sign whatever, drop the charges, stay out of the UK. Not like there’s anything here for me anymore.” The twist of bitterness was new, Greg noted. He did not feel sympathetic.

Anthea did not comment, instead passing several papers over, marked with bright stickers for Camille to initial and sign. “Your legal name please, Mrs. Lestrade,” Anthea said smoothly, her smile as insincere as it was possible to be.

Camille’s pen stilled and she glowered at Anthea before returning to the page, shrugging off the lawyer who seemed intent on reading the paperwork, or at least getting Camille to read it.

When she was done, Camille tossed the papers and pen on the table. “Are we done then?”

“We are,” Anthea replied blandly. “I am pleased this matter could be resolved so efficiently.”

“I’m sure you are. Say goodbye to Greg for me,” Camille sneered. She turned to the window and winked maliciously before taking herself out the door, head held defiantly high.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Greg’s knees buckled. Mycroft caught him, guiding him into his chair. Greg barely felt it, his breath coming fast and hard.

“She’s gone,” Mycroft said quietly, holding Greg close. “Signed the papers, legally binding with no loopholes. They’ll be taking her to the airport, she’ll meet Andre and they will be in Greece again before the day is through.”

Greg laughed, a burbling wet noise, the emotion still pouring out of him in his shaking and crying and sobbing. “Five years,” he whispered. “It’s a long time.”

_Doesn’t feel like it. Won’t be long before she’s back, the shadow around corners…_

“It will be far less than that before she is behind Greek bars,” Mycroft murmured as though reading his fears. “And then you will never have to consider her again.”

“Don’t know how the Greek courts will go,” Greg whispered. “Never know.”

Mycroft hummed his disagreement. “I anticipate the courts will not play a role in this particular case, Greg,” he said carefully. “There are…other ways.”

Greg nodded, not wanting to know. “I don’t care,” he whispered, realising the truth as he said the words. “She made her choice.”

He knew he was echoing his earlier words, perhaps even reassuring himself a little.

Mycroft did not reply, just tightened his hold on Greg until his breathing had evened out completely.

Finally Greg sat up, sighing. “I should meet with Zellich.”

“No need,” Mycroft said. “Anthea will take care of it.” He smiled at Greg. “A few days paid leave for your troubles, and you can return to work.”

“Yeah,” Greg said absently. “Back to work.” It wasn’t as comforting a thought as it might have been. There would be…gossip. Talk. The same speculative looks after his divorce, wondering about him, thinking God only knew what…

“If I might presume to offer some advice,” Mycroft said. The formal tone and diffidence were such a throwback that Greg paused.

“No presumption,” Greg said softly. “I want to hear what you have to say.”

Mycroft hesitated. “There will be a variety of reactions to our…relationship,” he said carefully. “I believe an attitude of casual nonchalance is the best course of action.”

Greg thought about this, the very conversation causing his heart to speed up again. “You mean, not making a big deal out of it?”

“Precisely.” Mycroft shrugged. “Not an announcement nor denial, simply…a previously unknown fact.”

“Right,” Greg said. He turned the idea over in his brain while he got used to it. It was good, really good. Took the stress of having to explain, or make some kind of announcement. Just say, ‘yep,’ if someone asked and move on. No explanation needed, no words needed to be found.

No shame to be had. He could leave all that behind with Camille, on a plane to Greece.

He exhaled, a deep, cleansing breath. Tuning back into his surroundings he found Mycroft looking at him, eyes anxious, arms still soft.

“I’m okay,” he said quietly. “Few days off, did you say? Any chance of some company?”

Mycroft’s eyes softened. “I do have some leave owing,” he said. “Several days, actually.”

“Excellent,” Greg murmured. “In that case, take me home.”


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft was walking half a step behind Greg the entire way along the first corridor. It was mildly irritating until Greg realised he was tactfully allowing Greg to choose their route through the building. As soon as he understood, Greg’s brain provided two logical routes – one through the back corridors and one through his office.

Right through the middle of his office.

With Mycroft.

Past Vance’s desk – if he had not begun gossiping, seeing Greg and Mycroft together would certainly get him going.

Past Melinda’s desk – a far less harrowing prospect.

Slowing, Greg glanced at Mycroft. His face was impassive as always.

“I’ll just stop past my desk,” Greg said, aiming for a casual tone. The tremor in his voice was a long way from casual, and he knew Mycroft clocked it.

“Shall I meet you at the car?” Mycroft asked.

Greg took a deep breath.

_Courage. Not cowardly. Not with Mycroft by his side._

“No,” he said, pleased his voice did not crack. “Come with me.”

Mycroft held his gaze for a long moment before he nodded. “If you’re sure.”

Greg’s heart was pounding but he took the left corridor toward the office, waiting for Mycroft to catch up with him. His pulse was loud in his ears as the door opened. Without thinking Greg realised he’d slouched into his work posture – face more set, shoulders a little hunched, pace quickening. Mycroft followed without comment, a fact for which Greg was infinitely grateful.

Finding both Vance and Melinda Ward absent from their desks was a mixed bag, so Greg headed straight for his own office, hoping Sally would be there.

“Sir?” Sally’s voice stopped him before he could say anything. “I thought you were…”

“Just grabbing a few things,” Greg told her. “Um, Sally, this is Mycroft.”

“Right,” Sally said, her face clearing. “Good to meet you.” She shook his hand. “He’s been keeping you a bit of a secret.”

“Our relationship is new,” Mycroft admitted. “Miss. Monroe has somewhat accelerated our timetable.”

“I can imagine,” Sally said sympathetically. “Poisonous little bitch, if I do say so.”

“And you do,” Greg said, grinning. “Often, as I recall.”

“Can I assume you’ve dealt with her, then?” Sally asked, looking between the two of them.

“Mycroft has…ensured she won’t be a problem,” Greg said, feeling himself choke up alarmingly as he spoke. “He was brilliant.”

“Good lord,” Sally murmured, her gaze flitting between the two men. “You two certainly do need a few days off.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg replied, flushing. This banter, as natural as any other, meant more than Sally probably realised. He grabbed a couple of things from his desk and turned to Mycroft. “Okay, I’m good to go.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. “Lovely to meet you, Sergeant Donovan.”

“Take care of him,” Sally told Mycroft.

“Of course,” Mycroft said.

As they navigated their way out toward the lift, Greg felt his anxiety falling away. It was one person, one conversation, but somehow it had filled him with confidence. He was far more aware of Mycroft now, his attention no longer pulled away by Camille’s ridiculous claims against him. Now he could focus on Mycroft, a few days together to settle into themselves before he had to return to the real world.

“Lestrade!”

_Damn it._

“Sir,” Greg spoke as his boss approached. He’d hoped Anthea would meet with him immediately and allow Greg and Mycroft to slip away.

“Lestrade,” Zellich said again. His eyes flicked over Mycroft suspiciously. “And who’s this?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft introduced himself smoothly. “Thank you for allowing me the use of your interview rooms today. I appreciate your consideration.”

Zellich, who looked to have been irritated, appeared somewhat mollified at Mycroft’s tone. “So you’re,” he faltered, jerking his head towards Greg.

“Greg’s partner, yes,” Mycroft replied, ever the politician.

“Yes, well,” the DCI said, turning his attention to Greg, “Chief Superintendent Roman has cancelled your meeting. She’s satisfied this was malicious and unfounded. So take your days and we’ll see you next week.”

“Okay. Great. Thank you,” Greg said in a rush, feeling himself sag with relief.

_Days off. No meeting with the brass. It’s done._

_She’s gone._

“Right,” Zellich replied. _Christ, he looks uncomfortable._ “DS Ward tells me there’s been a bit of gossip about this,” he indicated the two of them. “Make sure you get her onside if anyone says anything. No tolerance for that around here.”

He nodded once to himself, seemed at a loss, and Greg’s heart was in his mouth when he finally blurted, “See you next week then, Lestrade.”

“Yessir,” Greg replied though it took Mycroft’s hand on his back to start him moving.

“That was…less difficult than I understood it might be,” Mycroft said carefully as they stepped into the car.

“It wasn’t you?” Greg asked.

“No,” Mycroft replied. “I am grateful for it, however.”

“Me too,” Greg murmured. “Jesus, and I didn’t expect the anti-bullying bit from Zellich, either.”

“Do you know what might have prompted it?” Mycroft asked.

Greg turned without pause, burying his face in Mycroft’s shoulder. “Don’t know why. Don’t care right now.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied, curling his arms around Greg. “Might I take you home?”

“Oh God, yes,” Greg groaned.

_I was wrong._

_It’s not the end of something._

_It’s the beginning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter wraps up this story. I'm sure everyone can fill in the blanks of what Greg and Mycroft get up to on their time off together.  
> Thank you for everyone who has loved this - I am so pleased with how it turned out, and even more pleased so may of you enjoyed reading it too. <3


End file.
